


let the shadows fall behind you

by Sweetbriar15



Series: see the stone set in your eyes (the thorn twist in your side) [2]
Category: Descendants (2015), The Isle of the Lost Series - Melissa de la Cruz
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, Captivity, Child Abuse, Coming of Age, Escape, F/M, Families of Choice, Fighting Back, Gen, Good versus Evil, On the Run, Teenage Rebellion, Trauma, Villains being Villains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 68,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7598632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetbriar15/pseuds/Sweetbriar15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> "You don't understand what you're asking. My world doesn't work the way yours does." </i>
</p><p>Nevertheless, Mal tells her mother no...and suffers the consequences, alongside the captured royalty of Auradon, as the villains rampage and her trusted best friends remain unfettered, feigning loyalty to their parents. </p><p>Divided, the Isle-born rotten quartet must rely on old allies to survive, as well as their tenuous relationships with their Auradon-born peers. They don't have much time to uncover their strengths and make their choices, but...</p><p><i>("Our parents made their choice. Now you make yours.") </i> </p><p>They have nothing to lose.</p><p>:: </p><p>AU ending of first film, because segregating evil villains from the rest of society does not logically look like a half-humorous cohort of “has-beens”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story features less Disney-fied versions of villains. (Given other popular fic trends, many have the same critique.)
> 
> Some dialogue taken from the appropriate place in the film. Takes no official novelization into account for plot, only pulling on some minor character names and traits. Magic rules and possibilities spontaneously constructed and inspired by film theorizing.
> 
> Title of piece from “Toward the Sun” by Rihanna.
> 
> Playlist songs for this chapter includes titular song and “Anger Management” by Jonathan Maiocco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing of the original.
> 
> Title of piece from “Toward the Sun” by Rihanna.
> 
> Playlist songs for this chapter includes titular song and “Anger Management” by Jonathan Maiocco.

She’s never seen so much new.

Beside the bowing, curtseying, and smiling, everything around her is sparkling. Elegant gowns, polished jewels on shining chains, shoes that can’t be worn just any old day. Gold filigree, silver accents, pure white paint shining on a carriage.

A part of Mal wants to be disgusted by the extravagance. Shopping’s not an option for the penniless quartet. And while Mal’s the one who uses old-fashioned paper, Evie’s able to sculpt life from cloth. Mal’s new dress is paired with earrings Jay long ago “borrowed” for her and a hair ornament Carlos proudly pressed into her hands just that morning. The earrings have never been in her earlobes before: they matter too much to risk losing by daily theft on the Isle. The weight in her ears is almost distracting.

Not enough to divert her heart-hammering attention from the softly glowing wand on the pedestal.

The bowing and curtseying starts in front of her as Ben completes his walk down the hall. He stands so proudly, looks so handsome. This boy-man who gave her a naïve kind of trust, something she thinks (learned) is weakness. Yet the way he slips a smile at her as he stands in front of his father makes her foolishly wish. (In her mother’s revenge, is there the slightest chance she can keep—)

(Why even ask herself that?)

So, the wand.

She planted a little seed in Jane’s head because, well, objects of magic have rules. Like her mother’s staff, one that she’s never allowed to touch. That one’s liable to transfer allegiance depending on which holder is strongest, and it’s full of darkness. Not that she’s stronger than Mother. (She can’t be, because—)

This one? A wand infused with light, with good, and that means it cannot simply be taken against the holder’s will. In order to transfer hands there has to be genuine care from the taker towards the holder.

The things one learns when they read the information panels in museum archives.

Of course, then Mal had to work hard on compassion, which should be enough in terms of magic loopholes to exploit. As long as she doesn’t outright hate the person who holds the wand, enough positive feeling mustered up will let her take it from them.

Trying to like anything about Jane’s _mom_ would be so much harder.

While Jane’s a little irritating, she’s also sort of pitiful. She’d have been bottom-rung on the Isle. And Mal’s not one for care beyond her three friends-whom-she-protects (and maybe also one prince— No. Not allowed). Mal’s a very particular half-fairy.

She can handle small doses of Jane. She even half respects her for being so mean to them after Family Day. Rudeness after asking for a favor? Normal on the Isle. Undoing her hair was just the expected response (not hurt feelings, not allowed to be). And the incident didn’t stop her feeling some pity for Jane—so desperate to be happy, for her mom to make her pretty, for others to make a place for her in their worlds.

(It’s not empathy. It’s not.)

She watches Jane’s face as Ben kneels. Everyone around them glows in happiness and the plain-face girl who has been withering for ages stares hungrily at the magical instrument.

(It is not empathy.)

Mal keeps her eyes from the balcony her friends have ended up on. Their plan is set. That surprise video conference made their purpose final. They’re seizing their evil futures with both hands and eyes wide open. (None of them has a choice. Only fools wonder about possibility.)

Jane’s mother raises the wand, lowers it, raises it—

Mal sees the decision made: fingers coiling, eyes flashing, jaw tightening. Jane’s eyes narrow. Mal’s own face twitches.

(Her lips should have curled up. Lesson Nine in Steps of an Evil Scheme).

Leaping forward, Jane snatches the wand from her mother’s hand. Her hand points up, victorious…and then her arm starts twitching. A buried concern bursts to life and Mal grimaces at the ignored side note about magical artifacts.

Jane’s emotion towards her mother? Love.

But Jane’s intentions with the wand? Selfish.

The wand fights back.

Damn. That makes the Evil Scheme a smidge harder. (She feels frustrated by that. Not…anything else.)

A wild, magical bolt shudders through the room, out into the open air to land somewhere outside the palace. The audience, as a mass of gaping sheep, backs up. Shocked cries ring out. Mal roots her feet into the ground, having anticipated it, waiting for her opportunity. 

“Child, what are you _doing_?”

“If you won’t make me beautiful, I’ll do it myse— _aah_!”

Sparks fly off the wand. Mal is suddenly sheltered behind Ben’s strong, spread arms. (Her heart feels…something about that). While prepared to leap for the wand, his sudden hamstringing only causes a slight lag.

What really startled her was the sound of the sparks. That electrical snap, a crackle, as Jane spun around, desperately trying to control the wand. Heart pounding, Mal watches her spin and stagger.

(Jane will be fine.)

Another step, and there is an opening. She jumps away from Ben, around him, and takes the chance. (The sparks. That’s why she does it.)

Mal’s hand lands on Jane’s shoulder and wrist. One moves to slide her fingers beneath the other girl’s, a hard task when they clamp so fiercely. She pulls Jane closer, arms around her, chest-to-back, as Jane fights to keep her prize, or maybe fights the wand’s backlash. The sparks, a hoarse grating sound, continue. Mal tugs firmly (fearfully)—then, suddenly, easier. The wand feels smooth and light in her fingers.

Jane stumbles away, looking stunned. Mal’s hand follows her, reaching out.

For a moment, she thinks the wand will fight her too. She’s prepared for it. Instead, she feels only a mild buzzing in her hands, nothing to indicate what Jane had clearly felt as she tried to use it. In her hands, the wand is quiet (almost welcoming). Odd, but opportune.

Jane’s expression shows only terror, and Mal’s hand quickly withdraws to help stabilize the wand she now possesses. Amidst gasps and cries of fear, she stands triumphant.

(So why doesn’t she feel it?)

Mal feels an echo of Family Day when the hall’s response is so clearly fear. All around her are unfamiliar faces, in an unfamiliar place, where she is unwelcome (and it can’t feel like loss). None of that matters: she’s succeeded. She’s not a failure at this task, and finally made her mother proud.

As to why she feels nothing, just an emptiness… That doesn’t matter. (It can’t.)

And then there’s Ben, kind Ben, careful Ben, again in front of her, again protective. “Mal?” One arm stretched to her, one arm stretched behind himself. Towards his parents. Like they’re in danger from her.

(Oh. That’s what her mother wants.)

The other arm, though, the one stretching out to her, is not palm-out but palm-up. Beseeching, asking, almost trusting. “Give me the wand,” he says.

(He doesn’t understand what he’s asking.)

“Stand back.” She’s alone down here. The balcony’s too far, and there are too many guards, staff, assembled gaping audience… She’s on her own.

“It’s okay,” he tells her.

What a lie. There’s a gathering darkness at the windows that no one seems to have seen yet— and it’s not her. The sleek white instrument in her hands remains almost dormant. She recalls: a bolt blasting out and into the air and landing elsewhere. Those storm clouds are right out of a bedtime story.

Mal’s shriek pierces her own ears. “Ben, stand back!”

The barrier is already gone if her mother’s out making a storm.

(Nothing is okay.)

Audrey shrieks something at her, rude and mean and probably true, but all she hears is Ben’s raised voice, ricocheting above the rest in the hall as he asks her, “Do you really want to do this?” He sounds like he’s asking about poorly-written notes from class, if she thinks they’ll be useful.

Abruptly, she’s no longer feeling blank—her body trembles in well-repressed fear, a deep well of anger. It burbles past her lips without permission. “We have no choice!” (He has no idea.) “Ben, our parents—”

“Our parents made their choice. Now, you make yours.”

A hushed silence falls. The thunderclouds outside roil.

And Mal swallows back a wish, a hope, and ruthlessly reminds herself that time is out. No more Auradon Prep. No more dorm rooms. No more dates. (… Might as well admit it. That makes her sad.) The four of them have no choices. No chances. No possibilities. The others are even stuck on the balcony, otherwise they’d be beside her right now.

Licking her lips, she looks only at this boy with so much faith she doesn’t know where to put any of it. “You don’t understand what you’re asking. My world doesn’t work the way yours does.”

Lightning finds its way into the hall, illuminating the young king. His sad eyes bruise her heart, but only for a moment. Because then, those brown eyes are wide and looking past her.

A lack of thunder in a lightning strike can only mean the darkest fairy of them all.

“I’m back!” Mother cackles, laughter rolling wild between her teeth.

Mal doesn’t back away from Ben. He’s tugged back by his father, his mother grasping his other arm. United, the royal family is a cluster of fear smothered in stone-stern expressions. The rest of the royalty is all terror, all around.

And Jane’s mother is no help, crying out, “Maleficent!” as though anyone is ignorant of her appearance.

“Oh, I missed magic! I must say, you, girl, you have the makings of a minion, or even a mediocre villain. That inept flailing shattered a wicked hole in that wretched barrier!” Mother glides by, clutching her staff and garbed as she’s always been.

She spares Mal not a glance.

Jane clearly considers the compliment worse than her own plain appearance. Jane’s mother puffs up. “That is uncalled for!”

“Am I not appreciated?”

“Guards!” the queen demands, thin voice firm. A faint clanking rises up on the edges of the audience.

It seems the Beast can still be called upon, judging by the high-king’s slight metamorphosis and his growled, “You will be stopped! You’ll not remain free for long!”

Ben’s broken free from his mother’s grip, his own flashing eyes and snarling lips betraying just how much he’s taken after his father. He takes three steps before Mal sees her mother’s signature evil grin.

“Won’t I?”

Cackling, her mother raps her staff against the ground twice. A green-edged ripple pulses out into the mass of panicked royalty and terrified common folk. All around Mal, the world slows, then freezes.

She casts her eyes about the hall. All movement has ceased. A glance at the balcony, then a scan of the floor, shows her friends frozen in their haste to reach her, between the wall and the masses. Not trapped then, but too late to be by her side.

Their eyes meet in a brief second, full of frantic movement.

Oh. The living statue spell.

Turning back to Mother, she meets Ben’s likewise-living gaze beyond the black robes and staff. Without eyebrows or eyelid creases to illustrate emotion, she cannot read what he wants to say, but knows there’s something. Knows that his eyes are following her when she forces herself to watch Mother.

(She always hated the spell in writing. In person, it’s worse.)

“All that commotion,” her mother snorts. “What an irritating lot. I’ll have to keep a lot of these around, until everything else falls into place,” she says, poking Ben’s father with her staff. She bats his crown from his head with a flick of her wrist. “But it is so much more fun when they can’t talk back!”

Back on the Isle, Mal would have laughed. No evil cackle even nudges up her throat to join her mother’s.

Seemingly undisturbed by Mal’s response, the horn-crowned fairy snaps her fingers and holds out her free hand, saying, “Wand me, darling.”

Mal hesitates.

(“Our parents made their choice. Now you make yours.”)

The thought has always been there, prickling in the back of her mind. Even after the threat inherent in the video conference, even with her desire to make her mother proud, she’s wondered.

If she says it, she’s the only one who’ll get in trouble. Her friends are safely stuck: unable to move anything but their eyes, able to hear and feel while stuck in place (unable to interfere or take the blame).

(That’s the only reason she has the courage.)

“And then what, Mother?”

First, blinking. Then, sneering. That’s her immediate answer.

Mal was trained to be obedient. Bouts of curiosity and contrary emotional responses were quickly and ruthlessly squashed until her younger self learned to hold it in. But now, Mal… Well. She’s holding a powerful, contrary wand that isn’t defying her like it did a good-born half-fairy. 

(Jane got credit. What about her?)

With a curl of her lip, her mother turns away and starts inspecting other statues, starting with a nearby princess. “That should be obvious even to you. What have I been waiting for all these years, Mal?”

“Revenge.” (Not… a better life for both of them?)

(That’s an Auradon thing. She can’t expect—)

“Revenge. We have been living for it! It’s all we’ve been waiting for and training for and planning for, so I don’t know why you’re asking such a ridiculous question now, darling.” Her mother’s noticed Audrey. “Is this—it is! Oh, Mal, you found a present just for me!” One claw-tipped hand reaches for Audrey’s cheek.

“And what about me?”

(So what if the question stops her mother from touching the other teen?)

Looking at her with that green gaze, Mal can see suspicion starting to form in her mother’s mind. She tries to slow it as her mother walks toward her. “In your whole revenge plan.” Because it never has been Mal’s. “Where do I fit in your world?”

(Do I fit? Do you care about me?)

Her mother tuts dismissively, like she did when Mal once showed her a drawing that had taken her hours to finish. “Are you concerned about being successfully evil again? Because I understand, after not taking down the barrier yourself, you did fail that one job I asked you to do.” Her fingers pinch the air in between their faces as she stands in front of Mal, looking down at her in disappointment. “But you’ll get another chance to do something right!” Her mother grins at her, pacing away again, and her clawed nails dig in to Ben’s jaw. “Maybe I’ll let you can keep this one. As a toy.”

No answer to her question.

“Mother.”

“Oh, all right, he can be your slave.” She cackles again, releases Ben, then reaches her hand out to Mal. “Now. Wand, darling, we have lots more to do today.”

That’s the second time she asks.

(Mother does not ask. Fact.)

She realizes in that very breath that she should already have been punished for disobedience, the wand snatched from her hand. The rules of the artifact are—

Her brain skitters over the thought.

The one thing she’s always wanted is her mother’s acknowledgement (love). That was her question, that went unanswered. (Intentionally?)

Harder than breathing underwater, Mal asks, “Why haven’t you just taken it from me?”

Mother scowls.

(That means— The wand cannot be— No. Not after every damn day of her life—).

Head in turmoil, Mal voices the thought that everything now depends on. “The wand has protections. I found. No one can take it from the holder unless they—unless they really, genuinely care about them. So Jane could take it from her mom.” She leaves her own morsel of compassion towards Jane out of it. Implying it is dangerous enough. More dangerous when she asks, “But you—is it that you won’t take it from me, or that you can’t?”

The air seems to crackle with such a loaded question out in the open.

(Please. Please…)

Her mother snorts. “You have been here for too long, if they’ve gotten into your head with those sorts of thoughts. Genuine care! I thought you were smarter than that!” Scowling and stomping, she snaps, “I taught you everything you needed. I taught you, ungrateful wretch, about caring.” She sneers the last word, disappearing behind Mal as she does.

(Oh.)

Behind her, Mother says a phrase she’s said a hundred times. Mal repeats it voicelessly, lips perfectly echoing. “Love is weakness.”

The rant continues behind her. Too familiar. Too harsh in this hall of white marble and gold.

(“I don’t know what love feels like.”)

The memory focuses her eyes and they land on Ben’s, on warm brown eyes that rove in a frozen face. All the same, she wonders if when their eyes meet, she’s seeing pity there (or maybe, that tender fragile feeling she thinks might maybe be love). She wonders what he wants to communicate when they keep staring at each other, her mother’s rant white noise in her head.

While in Auradon, she’s come to learn that she has been standing on a ledge her whole life. Waiting to tip, to fall off into some grand adventure—to be free with her friends, to be known as a person. Evil was taken for granted. Happiness, though, was new, something found and hard to keep. Yet they had all felt it here. Jay’s never smiled so wide, Evie’s never laughed so loudly, Carlos has never flung about his hugs so carelessly. And Mal had her art and a tender boy-man looking down at her with a gentle smile.

(Love?)

Just looking at Ben’s frozen form is enough to make her want to find out. Because this, what precious little he’s given her in the short time they’ve known each other, makes her feel alive. Wanted.

The opposite of what Mother makes her feel.

Her mother’s rant has tapered off to the usual muttering. She can interrupt now. Her eyes stay on Ben’s when she states, “So. You _can’t_ take it.”

Subtext: you don’t love me.

Mother stalks around her, completing her circle. “Stop believing in their nonsense. It hardly matters when you can just hand. It. Over.”

Mal’s throat feels full, her eyes tingly, her chest tight.

That’s no denial (wanted without consciously waiting for).

Her mother’s never going to be proud of her. Never going to tell her she’s done everything right. Her mother’s never going to steal earrings or a hairclip to make her smile, never going to make her a new dress to make her feel beautiful, never going to feed her strawberries and say, “I can teach you.” Never going to kiss her cheek or hold her hand.

It’s a fragile new dream, but it suddenly weighs much more than her old Isle dream of every person in the market quaking and shivering when she walks past.

“You never will,” she says, slowly, understanding it as it is said. Evil has no place for caring (love).

(“In her own way,” she’d said to Evie. How naïve. How stupid.)

“I’m becoming rather tired of this disobedience,” Mo— _Maleficent_ says, growl partnered with a magic eye-flare. “Now give me the wand!” It’s a roar, in her face, and the ties that hold them together are unravelling rapidly.

Her friends might forgive her (since they won’t be in trouble, too). Maleficent never will (but that’s always been, even if she never quite realized it). And Mal? She’ll be able to live with herself (however long that might be).

She says, “No.”

The denial is soft. Maleficent’s response is not.

Mal’s ready for it. Her forearm catches the blow. Her other fist, clenched around the wand, swings up in response to a fist full of green flame. Instinctively, she _asks_ —and a short-burst shield diverts half of the fire.

The other half lands on her too-long skirt, quickly crawling before she swipes a sharp blast of air to smother it. (Memory: the lab, an experiment of Evie’s, a quick spell). Except—she had only _asked_ , in a way hard to explain.

The wand’s not fighting her. The magic is doing what she needs it to do, without a spell.

(Think about it later. Fighting Mother now.)

Her dress’s hem is gone, and a jagged swath up to her right knee. She grabs at her throat and quickly releases the magnificent lavender cape before she has to duck another staff-strike.

“Insolent girl,” Maleficent hisses, stalking forward, forcing Mal to back up.

Her fists are up, almost uselessly—one clutching the wand, the other unable to reach the distance and punch back. While Maleficent trained her (by throwing her into minion fight-circles), with the staff in her hand she’s magically formidable and Mal has too little practice in using magic to make it flow naturally into her usual fighting patterns.

She arches around another fireball and reaches out with the wand, asking again, and the fire smolders to nothing before reaching the statue-audience.

But the time it takes to do that distracts her—the staff slams into her knee.

White hot pain.

She stumbles, sliding sideways, closer to the raised dais in the hall.

Maleficent snaps, “We’ve already established that you cannot beat me. That leaves your options at death—” another strike, forearm-blocked again “—or obedience.”

What a choice. She never has any.

If she did, right now, she wants like she’s never wanted before. She wants go back to before she knew what she now knows, to before she chose to defy, to when all she had to care about were her trio and their next meal because tomorrow didn’t exist. The times when they ran about the Isle causing chaos—she remembers them in brief, in a series of smirks and traded loot and laughs. (Unthinking, she wishes: home.)

Clutched in her hand, the wand vibrates a gentle pulse.

Glows.

Gives a dazzling burst of white, and—it’s gone.

For an instant, they both stare at Mal’s empty hand like they are also frozen people. Mal breathes deeply, taking in the surprise and subsequent pause, knowing it’s short—

A snake-strike hand reaches for her throat and (NO) she knocks it away, both hands now free.

“What did you do?”

Far more terrifying than Maleficent’s anger is her calm. Never has she spent a day truly calm: the worst punishments only came when she stopped cackling and raging, becoming cold and emotionless.

Mal knows this Maleficent to be worse than dangerous.

She still chooses to meet Maleficent’s eyes and lie. “Hid it. Somewhere you’ll never find.”

Maybe no one will: she doesn’t know why it disappeared, never mind where it went. But bluffing keeps Maleficent’s focus on her, away from the living statues. She’s always been good at redirecting, for her trio’s schemes. (For their safety.)

Maleficent’s face hardens, as though carved from ice. “You’ll regret that.” She swings the staff like a club—and makes a mistake.

The angle makes easier for Mal to use her palm instead of her forearm. With both hands free, she uses both.

No-touching rule: broken.

Two people are touching the staff at once, and that’s taken as a challenge.

Mal feels her muscles lock, arms raised in defense, back and knees bent to move more quickly, one heel behind the other for stability. Maleficent, seeming taller and terrible, is just as stuck, staring at the bright green pulse at the top of the staff.

All around their hands, black strands seep from the staff. Twining around their wrists, whipping the air around them, growing larger. And larger.

Like a sharp rap on the knuckles, Mal’s fingers jolt and release the staff. Her footing is lost as she tumbles back. Recovering on bent knee and outstretched leg, she gasps as the black twining threads remain swirling around her wrists, curling up her arms.

The staff stands on its own between them. Maleficent is recovering on hands and knees down the hall, blown back halfway to the doors.

Mal, opposite her, closer to the dais, recovers first.

Smoke curls, tentacle tendrils, and ribbons of dark light keep curling towards her as she stands, then stumbles forward. They caress her, curl around her, playful and devious. She feels a thrill at the sense of welcome, of belonging—then a deeper curl of satisfaction when Maleficent, on her knees and reaching out one hand, seems unable to call the magic back toward her own body.

Layers of her black robes seem to be peeling away, exposing what looks like a deep green, and her horns start to appear more brown than black.

Mal is hardly trying to call the darkness to her—it flows on its own. She glances at her own previously lavender gown, noting detachedly that, even if it’s a fruit, eggplant is a more fitting shade for her. And growing ever more dark, as the ribbons of magic clearly swirl in her direction.

(Deep inside, a small voice whispers: but Evie made it lavender.)

She strides another two steps before Maleficent cackles. Her eyes shine a brilliant green as she calls, “Clever brat! Fighting dirty. But do remember _why_ you are so determined. You wouldn’t want to lose that reason.”

Lightning crackles at Maleficent’s fingertips. Tinged green, a spell, one that Mal prepares to attempt flicking aside with a wave of her fingers—until Maleficent’s aim is clearly to her left.

(Deep inside, a small voice whispers: the dais.)

Her eyes glance, calculating the trajectory, concluding that the handsome boy-king frozen mid-stride is in Maleficent’s sight.

(Not so deeply, a small voice says: Ben.)

(Stronger, says: danger.)

(NO.)

Her stride turns into a pivot-lunge as lightning leaves Maleficent’s fingertips and zags past the staff—

A glance into brown eyes, wide—

Green lightning collides with her back.

Screaming.

Like lightning, it burns. It jolts her entire frame and blots out the world in a flash of blinding light.

Unlike lightning, her eyes flutter and crack open once it has roared through her body. Spasms shudder through her, aftershocks. Her hand, lying limp on the floor in front of her face, shows the green jumping on her veins with each uncontrolled jerk and twitch. Her legs, curled toward her chest, strain her abdomen with every breath she gasps.

She cannot move for long enough that her slow mind finally pieces together that she has collapsed nearly where she leapt. Nearly, because the toe of a shoe is underneath her ribs and the shoe's wearer stands frozen behind her. (Ben. Knowing hurts. Not like the magic but close enough.) 

Through hazy eyes, she watches. Maleficent has managed to crawl to the staff. Her fuzzy edges don’t stop Mal from seeing her haul herself hand-over-hand up the stuck-fast artifact. Dark shadows flow away from her, spinning around the glowing green staff—and back to the horned woman whose robes are returning to black.

Outside, the clouds gather anew.

Her bones ache. The crackles are fading, but her energy hasn’t returned yet. She weakly tries to lift a hand and it wobbles disobediently. The black swirls away from her more quickly. The darkest fairy is on her feet once more.

(Her heart aches.)

Maleficent’s face is lit by the glowing green of her staff. She stands there, imperious, as the rest of her power returns to the staff, returns to her.

Mal’s weakness ebbs enough for her to shove one hand underneath her torso. She makes it to her elbows and knees before a malicious purr weaves through the storm-heavy air: “I told you love was weakness.”

Her skin _rips_.

A thousand paper-cuts coated in lemon juice. Broken bones poking out. Flayed skin.

Or so it all seems, that’s how it feels, and her throat feels raw when she screams, and her eyes barely a crack—only enough to see the claw-shaped darkness that drags a lilac mist from her body, a faint pulsing green mixed with it.

“It’s like an infection, isn’t it? All that _good_. Don’t worry, Mother will take it away.”

Magic. Her _magic_. And she’s too weak to stop it. (She’ll be nothing without it.)

The last fragile wisps detach from her body. Her thoughts return as she hears her own broken sobs. She stifles those immediately, clenching her jaw tight.

Maleficent watches as the swirl packs itself into the glowing orb of her staff. “So disappointing. I had hoped you would continue to be useful.” The gem flickers stagnant as the last visible threads of darkness dissolve.

The toe of that shoe is digging into her ribs again. Knowing he’s right there behind her is a small comfort, and that brief feeling dies instantly when Maleficent plucks the staff from the ground and strides toward her.

That rouses enough energy in Mal for her to push against the floor with weakened arms. (Not Ben. Not her, not again while she’s at his feet.)

The staff swings about in the air and, from the dust or the stone itself, she draws up soldiers clad in dark armor. Shadow-warriors. Limited usage, hardly a substitute for real minions, but enough for now. Enough until Maleficent can bring over those submissive alliances made on the Isle.

Two form close to Mal, and their jagged armor scratches her arms as they unceremoniously haul her up. Her toes splay against the ground, reaching for footing that she’s denied. They carry her closer to where the evil fairy has now taken center-stage in the hall. Dramatic pose, cold gaze—and Mal knows.

To the mother, this is a minor conflict and bump on the path to her revenge.

To the daughter, the world imploded and she took herself out along with it.

Upright, her head’s spinning and everything is wavering in and out of focus. Maleficent’s cold gaze holds a fixed point in the hazy room until her eyes flick away. “Despite all that we have to get revenge for, it seems I have another charge to level against you, Beast.” Her hazy-edged form waves one hand carelessly in the air. “While it was an excellent disciplinary tool, your little magical preventative stopping any person from killing any other on the Isle led to this unsightly display.”

(… No, no more. Surely nothing could hurt worse than her earlier realization.)

Maleficent’s eyes are back on hers, glowing from several feet away. “We’re not behind the barrier anymore. When you die this time, you won’t come back again.”

(She was wrong.)

Numb, she blinks as a blurry hand moves. “Take her down to the dungeon for holding. I’ll get to her when I’ve dealt with more important matters.”

Those cold eyes disappear and the room returns to a darkened, spinning whirl. Mal won’t have to watch Maleficent take her seat on the throne. Mal can’t get a last look at the boy-king she thinks she might love. Her arms already ache as the shadow-minions start marching.

Mal also can’t look to her friends to confirm that they are all right, or even if they care after she self-destructed and took their plan with her. (Might they still care about her…?)

Turning her head on her aching neck is too difficult, but she tries to hold her head up (a last show of defiance). Feeling the stones under her dragging toes, she won’t let herself focus too much on the audience passing by. They are silent statues, faceless except for their roving eyes.

Some are crying. For their beloved royal lives, for the horror of villains escaping the Isle, or even because they are stuck frozen and that must be terrifying.

(No one would weep for her.)


	2. part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist song for this chapter: “Drop That” by Jacob Plant.
> 
> 8/27 - Logic edits. Oops!

The stone reeks of old water. Mold does not linger in the cracks—yet—only because Auradon seems to pride itself on clean dungeons.

Or, did. When it existed.

Evie likes to think of Auradon as asleep. Forced to lie down for a while, like a fragile lady in need of smelling salts. She likes to think it because that means Auradon will wake up again. It’s better than thinking of Auradon as a lady murdered in the night, while she slept in her room.

If she must pretend to want new gowns and tiaras while blinking opinion-less at her mother’s side, then at least she’s not used to the idea that executions are coming soon.

Drawn out over the past week, in political upheaval and civilian turmoil that particular question still lingers. Years spent on the Isle resulted in two violently opposed desires for revenge: quick and brutal, or drawn-out and savored. The quick and brutal camp is waiting with knives in their teeth only because Maleficent made an example of one who got close to leaving King Naveen liver-less. And stomach-less. And…well. He isn’t, is all.

Those who followed Maleficent from the Isle are like stray children over the scraps left from the barge on delivery day. Maleficent stopped all revenge proceedings until Aurodon’s citizens are controlled, and claimed that she needed convincing about whose way is evilest.

Evie thinks their tyrannical new queen has already decided. Just looking here is reason enough.

She lingers in shadow beside the wide dungeon stairs. Laid before her is a graceful semi-circle of cells. The curve prevents any corners from hiding an escaped prisoner and allows the imprisoner full view of all his or her detainees. It also denies full privacy while preventing a full view of other prisoners. Hated kings and princes in one, despised queens and princesses in a second, and their after-thought children lumped in the third. Divided and conquered. (Did the king realize the architectural cruelty before being placed in one of the cells himself?)

Another addition, not original to Auradon, is also in place. The cells leak spell-muted mutters, the prisoner’s shouts, from behind shimmering barriers. Sounds float easily in, but are harder to send out.

Yes, Evie thinks, it is clear what revenge their dark ruler wants. Her mother wouldn’t have set the spells if they weren’t meant to last some time.

(Small mercies. They have a little time.)

Not too long after the coronation confrontation, Evie explored the castle. Throat full of unshed tears, she strode with a blank face even when sure she was alone. Slipping through servants’ quarters brought her to a small, hidden passage that wound about the castle itself—including, as if an answer to her seeking, the dungeons.

On the far side from where she stands is a second hall, narrower and steeper, leading into the servant’s areas after crossing the guard’s dining hall and quarters corridor. (On the far side is her chance.)

Raucous, unpleasant laughter echoes down the steps. Evie inhales deeply, willing her shadow-cloak spell to hold. If she moves a breath too quickly it will break. But all she needs is to see—

Gaston and a nameless lackey pass by without hesitation, followed by a guard in full armor. The two unarmored men’s hands hold—

Well. Gaston’s are not minding the fact that the girl he supports is just that. A girl. No, his hand is clenched snugly around her bicep, her form pressed to his side, even as the lackey helps support her limp weight.

(Evie’s the same age as his sons and she’s always avoided the man. It’s that simple.)

Purple locks, tangled and unwashed, limply fall around a too-thin face. She is held upright, toes skimming the ground. Her bruised wrists are connected by a long chain. The lace dress is long gone and she’s left in a shift, thin and worn, and—

The back of her gown, below her hips, has a rusty stain. She swallows hard and wills herself not to move yet. Not yet. (When she does she will stab.)

The quartet’s destination is the furthest cell, still empty. Mal is a declaration: brought out of a solitary pit Evie entered only once with a whisper shared, and tossed into the regular holding pens to wait. She is waiting for her own unhappy ending.

Her captors pass cells. Muted murmurs wither briefly, then resurge with a vengeance.

Evie fights a faint, surprised, grateful twitch of her lips when she sees Doug bang one fist against the bars, face red. Audrey curls into Lonnie’s stone-faced embrace. Ben—clearly inherited something not quite human. He snarls, teammates’ hands on his shoulders and back.

(Do these Auradon teens see, now? Why the Isle’s leftovers have no choices? What their true conflict is?)

Evie can’t look too closely at the adults. They are too extremely opposite of the ones she grew up witnessing. It’s hard to look at them while knowing she let them be put here. Hard to bear their confused, grieving eyes, and harder still to see disgust.

But she does look at one, considering which villain has his paws on her friend.

Ben’s mother has spitting-mad lines drawn around her eyes. Her hands claw the barrier. A wish to deal out death glows in Belle’s eyes as they rest on Gaston’s back.

A second set of footsteps break the hum of the captive’s voices—not pounding or desperate, but demanding attention. No attempt to hide or be unnoticed. This is the stride of someone who is sure they have standing, and will be obeyed, and does not need to be subtle. Evie’s fingers fall to dance around the handle of the blade strapped flat to her thigh.

The guard simply halts. Gaston and the lackey pause, steps away from the cell they’ll shove Mal into, and falter in their turn. They then—

Evie winces for her.

( _Deadly_ stabbing.)

Mal breaks her fall with outstretched arms when her body meets the floor. No movement comes afterwards. _I’m defeated_ , is her message. She lays there, limp and half-curled, dust-black shins and dainty feet exposed, too-thin body twisted awkwardly, hands and arms curled under her, cheek pressed to the floor, hair covering her eyes. (Surely… She must believe.)

“What do you want, boy?” Gaston says, put upon, still being denied the former queen whose fingers are white-knuckled against the cell bars.

“You’re needed in the stables. Something’s come up.”

Silence falls.

Any sound behind the barriers is now truly murmurs. The actors in their scene remain unruffled: Gaston and his lackey genuinely don’t care.

But Jay is master in the art of appearing unaffected. He embodies casual, in stride, posture, and father-like smirk. He looks the way he would whenever alliances tensed between the youth on the Isle. Certain and dangerous. Hair pulled back and low, he stands there in his battle armor: a bit more leather and a bit less color, a bit more intimidating and a bit less youthful.

Gaston was never party to the Isle’s youth establishing territory, never witness to Jay earning his reputation among them. The man scoffs. “You must be joking. You don’t get to—”

“I’m the messenger, not Her Royal Evilness.” One shoulder presses firmly in the brick. His arms are crossed to showcase the muscles that Gaston increasingly casts jealous glances upon whenever they see each other. Jay raises one eyebrow. “I’d do what she wanted, if I were you. Might even be easier than getting to the _barge_ first.”

Gaston and his lackey snort, hearing nothing amiss. The guard remains motionless. Evie’s eyes catch fulfilled hope sprawled on the floor: the faintest of breaths, and the slight curling of muscles, and a twitch of her head. (Message received.)

Clearly thinking he can take his time, Gaston declares, “We’ll head up after this one’s in for the night.”

They both turn before Jay warns, “The message was to go quickly. Not on your own time.”

This time, Gaston’s arrogance is layered with suspicion. “And I suppose you’d finish our orders to drag the traitor into her cell?”

Jay smiles his knife-blade grin, the one that warns his next move will be to steal his prey blind or leave them crumpled and bleeding. “Where else would a traitor go?”

Evie’s shadow-shrouded fingers grip her blade.

The guard shifts in his armor, no longer a statue. One gauntleted hand rests on the sword’s handle.

Jay’s grin smooths. “Or you could stretch your time limit. Up to you, though I have to ask, wasn’t Grimhilde the one with all the keys?”

“She’s got the big ones. I’ve got the kiddie version,” Gaston grins, tapping a ring on his belt. “Is that it? You trying to keep an eye on some pretty young thing?” The question is followed up with an utterly indecent leer. Predictably, it’s not cast toward the women his own age. Evie shudders with the others who step behind their bristling male classmates.

“Not everyone’s you,” Jay shrugs. “Then again, nobody’s quite like you.”

(The insult’s not quite buried).

The man’s too arrogant about himself to do more than take it as a power-play and get back to business. Gaston snorts. “You don’t know what you’re missing, boy. But then, I always thought that was Jafar’s problem, too.” (An insult that misses its mark widely.) He turns away. “I’ll be there in my own time.” The lackey scrambles to his side. The guard follows the two, and turns his own back to the new arrival.

(Now.)

Jay sheds his act like snakeskin. His face hardens from lazy disdain to rigid stony anger. His eyes burn with intent. He moves smooth and quick, crossed arms unfolding to display that he came bearing hidden knives. They glisten dangerously in the low light. His thieving feet carry him silently, swiftly, down the stretch of hall, as the two unarmored men reach for her friend.

There is a rush of wordless sound and, just as quick, a hush, from behind the barriers.

The change in sound doesn’t alert the men. Resistance is unanticipated, and so they freeze when, far closer than expected, Jay snaps, “Barge.”

Mal unfreezes.

Her legs whip out, swinging together, into the lackey’s knees, sending him sprawling. Gaston’s reaching hands miss, and Mal’s purple locks whip past his sputtering face as she swirls under his arm and over the lackey, twisting herself into the ground and back to her feet.

She’s hunger-weak, she trembles, she almost slips, but her chained wrists clatter through the air and around Gaston’s throat.

Jay launches into the guard, whose armor is tough but whose sword can’t be drawn in close quarters—not with a street-fighter who stays too close and is moving too quickly. And the joints of the armor are weak.

He wedges one blade into the man’s elbow, and the guard shouts a curse.

The lackey’s stomped on several times and howls. Evie twitches, listening hard, but no other feet come. (He did clear the corridor. They’d worried about that part.)

Gaston claws at the chain. Mal’s arms tremble. She’s pulled off her toes and scrambles up his back knee-by-knee, pressing into his spine as she yanks backwards, hard. The man makes horrid noises, sends them both stumbling into the bars of a cell—the queens and princesses back up, startled, then surge forward, hands useless to reach beyond the barrier.

And she keeps holding on.

She pulls with weakened arms and her lips are drawn back in a grimace but _she holds on_.

(Almost. Almost. Almost.)

Jay finally knocks the guard down into a sprawl on his cut-elbow arm and whirls back around at the lackey. The thin-mustached man crawled away from booted feet but barely to his own knees, not attempting anything but his own desperate crawl to safety. He collapses after a metal-weighted fist to the head.

In the time it took to catch the crawler, the guard’s back on his feet.

Gaston, on his knees, gasps faintly. Mal’s hands, white-boned and red, shake.

Jay’s back is to the sword. There’s too much noise to hear it drawn, when the cell-kept murmurs surge. But their Jay is a savvy fighter who can sense the change in motion behind him. Alleyways are never safe.

He simply trusts in Evie. (Exasperation feels like fondness.)

Shadows fly away from Evie’s limbs as she lifts her arm and sends her blade zipping through the air into the narrow space between helmet and back plating.

Jay turns as the bloody guard collapses, barely a wisp of hair out of place. Their eyes meet, then his attention is drawn to Mal just as Gaston’s face meets the ground. Her trembling hands fall away.

And just like that, two men are unconscious and one is bleeding his life away into the stone.

Mal half-crawls from the man, eyes scanning frantically, catching on the guard. She turns to the dungeon stairs. Their eyes meet and the confusion flips into something unfamiliar, but deep. Evie could almost call it gratitude.

(Bury emotions. No time to feel them.)

Evie steps into the torch-light, her other hand clutching a set of clothes. She meets Jay’s eyes and gives a sharp jerk of her chin back to the stairs.

“Fifteen minutes,” he reminds her. His hand clasps Mal’s shoulder before he strides past her panting form. Soundlessly, he disappears up the stairs.

Evie ignores the cells, first handing her friend a pair of pants. The shirt and jacket she lets fall at their feet. “Hurry.”

“You have a plan. How?” Mal shimmies into her familiar leather pants with no shame. There’s no point to it and no time to hide modestly.

“Listening.” She doesn’t need to explain it all, not in front of watching eyes. (Why say the obvious, that her mother thinks she’s out hassling citizens of the town? That Jay’s clearly working for Maleficent at his father’s demand?). She crouches and tugs at the keys Gaston gestured at on his belt. They fall into her hands - both of them. “Carlos is clearing ahead. You’ll meet him out the back.”

Just two keys. She stands and tries the smaller one on Mal's chained hands. They fall away with a clatter. 

"And you?" Mal asks.

Evie busies her hands with ripping up a seam of Mal’s shift, all the way to her armpit. The gaping fabric exposes shoe-print bruises on her side. "Should be, too."

Mal takes the shirt with an intense stare. “No, _will_. What happens when—”

“If,” Evie cautions.

“When. You know they’ll figure it out, eventually.” She pulls the shirt over her head. “You saw what she did to me.”

(The magic, she means. Ripped out. No time for that emotion, either.)

Evie rips the second seam of the shift up Mal’s other side, reaching up her shirt to do it. “Which is why you definitely aren’t staying. And you’re taking others with you.” Mal eyes her uncertainly, jacket in her hands, as Evie efficiently pulls the shift up through the collar of the old shirt. Mal dons the jacket as Evie wraps the torn cloth into a thick wadded bunch.

A spark of memory shines in Mal’s eyes. She looks down at the key ring, grimly. Evie shows her: one key used, only one other remaining. 

Evie’s neck feels the uncomfortable prickle of eyes and expectations. “Mother didn’t trust him with the rest.” Her eyes finally flick away, to the closest cell where the queens and adult princesses watch intently. Evie admits, “I don’t know which cells it can unlock.”

Queen Belle doesn’t seem accusing. Only grateful, hopeful, and resigned. A slim chance, but a chance.

Mal’s still not quite running on all cylinders when Evie strides to the cell door. Padding bulges in the palm of her hand. The cloth might not be enough, but it’s better than holding the key bare-handed. She places it in her awkward fingers.

“If it’s not, wouldn’t your mother—Evie, _wait_!”

But she sticks the key in the lock.

 _ZAP_.

Like an unwanted guest rejected in Isle fashion, the key and holder are treated to a bright blue electric shock. She hisses in pain despite being caught entirely prepared. The fabric is scorched, her fingers are cramping, and the cell remains locked.

On the other side, the queen of Auradon stands, surrounded by famous feminine faces. Those whom villains targeted for being the heroes of their own stories.

Evie forces herself to pretend her hand’s fine. “I’m fine, Mal. But.” She forces herself to meet the queen’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m not strong enough to break the key's enchantment.” The queen leans forward, mouthing something that Evie thinks may be a reassurance. It certainly doesn’t look like blame.

A pitiful half-grin forms on her face in response. (What if her own mother were so encouraging…? Seemed to trust her so fully…? But—no. Not allowed.)

Evie squares her shoulders and makes to move to the next cell, the king’s.

“Let me—”

Blocking Mal is all too easy, and all too painful. “She took yours.” (Took the magic, the brightness, what made Mal shine a little in her senses, a vibrant half-fairy now tragically dimmed.)

“I hadn’t noticed,” Mal’s sarcastic response throbs with a bitterness. “But you don’t need to have magic to turn the key.”

No, but it helps keep her hands functional after the jolt. “You need both your hands to escape,” Evie counters, firm and final. She re-adjusts the wrap as she walks to the next cell door.

“And you don’t need yours?”

Evie counters, “Weapons, too. There might be more guards.”

(Like the body. Behind her. The one she put there.)

(No time. Later. Think later.)

Mal turns away, disgruntled, but bends slowly to pick up the sword from the guard and collect more weapons from the bodies. She is the better fighter: Evie’s always just batted her lashes at enemies. She keeps a distance and uses Jay’s blades when flirting fails.

Evie tries the king’s cell.

 _ZAP_.

(OUCH.)

Evie stifles her whimper, shakes out her hand. “Sorry,” she says, to the king this time. Just like his wife, he shakes his head and gestures for her to go on to the next. (She’d like to think his expression is compassion, but it’s too new to be sure.)

Sighing, she obeys. There are twice as many parents as there are children, and the cells are spacious. Her former classmates have enough room.

Pressing the key into a third lock, she turns it.

Three cells, one key that works, two already down. Of course the bars open easily. The magical barrier still shimmers, but she can break that without a key.

“I should have guessed. The ‘kiddie’ one, he said,” she says, fingertips prodding at the magical barrier. On the other side, their classmates are eagerly trying to help push past it, and she unthinkingly starts to say, “Malef—”

She winces.

Mal finishes the thought anyway. “Maleficent must have the one for your parents.” Turning, Evie sees her friend weighed down with the sword and a long hunting knife through a holding loop in her pants. Her feet are bare and her face is blank.

She follows Mal’s gaze back into the cell, where Ben’s at the front of the cluster, and his forgiveness and worry is easy to read. (No blame…? How could he look at them without it?)

“Hold on, I’ll need a minute,” she tells them, moving her hands again to feel out the access points of the spell. It’s a challenge, with people like Doug so close they could touch without the magic. But that’s all she can do, quickly work, concentrate on this spell while they still have—

“Time’s up,” comes the hard-pressed voice, heralded by the soft skid of light feet down stone stairs.

“No!” Mal snarls as Jay careens back into the dungeons, his eyes darting in concentration.

Evie pauses for the explanation, while Mal puts her hands to her hips and looks every inch the dangerous fighter she was on the Isle, robed back in her battle-gear. The purple is darker, the edges tailored for movement instead of posing in success. Her eyes are fiercely narrowed.

Jay stops beside them. The reason is in the crease of his eyebrows. “Plan B,” he says, and Evie sucks in a breath. “Jafar’s back early.”

They can’t leave with Mal, not when Jafar’s brought back the best hunters. They’d set out to bring back the mermaid-queen and her king, and must have found the two delayed-in-travel royals invited to the coronation. There’s no escape from villains like that...not without help from inside the castle.

“No,” Mal whispers.

(Stage the scene. Worry when they’re gone.)

“I’ll take it down the easy way, then,” Evie says, withdrawing her hands from the barrier. Her beautiful up-do is going to fall into frizzy pieces, and her immaculate princess gown will be smudged with dirt, but her mother’s displeasure will be soothed by the fact that she would appear to have gone down fighting.

Mal protests. “Evie, no, there has to be—”

“I’ll have a cover, Mal. It won’t look like I helped, it’ll look like I fought back.” She flexes her fingers and rotates her shoulders, hoping the backlash won’t hurt too much.

Evie doesn’t turn to her task quite yet, though, not when she knows what Mal’s expression means. Her lavender eyes spit fire as she desperately declares, “I am not leaving you behind.”

“Mal—” Jay tries.

“I _won’t_ —”

“Mal!” He reaches out and grasps her shoulders with both hands, ducking his head to meet her gaze. “You have to.”

They could hold a battle of wills all day without her or Carlos to intercede. And in this, there’s no choice. (They never have a choice.) Evie interjects firmly, “We’ll be fine. But you won’t be. And neither will they.”

That, it seems is the only truth that will break through to Mal. Jay seizes on it. “Get them out of here, get them to where no one will look for them. Keep them safe.”

Her uncompromising trade is, “Then keep your heads down and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Deal.”

This, Evie will accept. “Stand back,” she warns the captives. They move _en masse_ to the back of the cell. No hesitation—she has to do it now, while Mal allows them to, for once, protect her. She’s allowed to stretch her wings, a shield for them, the sacrifice.

Evie reaches into the barrier and twists. Pulls.

Screams.

:: :: ::

Anyone else watching Mal would see her blank face and assume things.

Jay knows exactly what level of fury she feels by the crease in her eyebrows. He’s privately glad that he can still read her. The way her shoulders stiffened when he touched her made him worried.

Her nightmare of a mother couldn’t take out that protective part of Mal. Just, it seemed, her magic. (If Evie says that’s what happened, Jay believes. Even with Maleficent’s comments about “goodness”.)

The newly-freed teenagers scramble over themselves to get out of their cell. But they don’t just cling to their families through bars: most also cry out some variation of, “Evie!”

Mal is the one to say, from her crouch to check their friend’s pulse, “She’s fine. The backlash knocked her out.”

“She’s breathing, she’s not even burned,” Doug adds from her other side. He has one hand pressed to her cheek.

Audrey rapid-fire mutters, “She has to be okay, she did that for us, she _has_ to be—”

Some are clinging at the cells their parents occupy. The adults press close to the bars and their barrier-filtered words buzz in the air.

Jafar will send out a searcher any minute.

Jay says, as loud as he dares, “There’s no time for this. You have less than two minutes.” A slight exaggeration, but their time is running out. In his head, he can hear his own adrenaline-pounding heartbeat.

(Save them. Survive. Two priorities.)

That got the leader-types moving, tugging the others away from the cells. Clinging glances are exchanged with frantically gesturing parents. ‘Away, away’ they point and wave, ‘go now!’

(Now that’s love. He’s starting to recognize it.)

Chad Charming says, “There’s a back way, right?”

“A passage through the servant’s access tunnel,” replies Ben, squaring his shoulders. “But it goes through the guard quarters.” He stands beside Mal as she rises to her feet, under her own power. (There was a hand reaching to help her. She ignored it.)

Uneasy shifting. Jay interjects, “They’ll be empty, or mostly empty. Carlos is waiting.”

“Come on. Come on, Audrey, now,” Lonnie demands.

Tears are streaking down both girl’s faces. “But—”

Jay nudges both with hands on shoulders. “Go. No time. Go.” It rises into a chant that carries his classmates toward the back of the dungeons.

Mal locks eyes with him as she backs away. “Stay alive.”

“Keep them safe,” he responds. She whips around and moves toward the back passage.

The herd follows her in.

Jay grabs one arm before the would-be king can take more than a step after her. “Ben.” He meets the prince’s eyes squarely. “You make _certain_ she gets out.” Layered underneath the warning-demand is the knowledge of a blood-stained shift, of her thinned face, of her adrenaline-fueled stride and the fact that she hasn’t slept on a bed in over a week. Ben meets his eyes evenly and Jay knows that he’s seen it on Mal, too.

Even tired, stressed, and having lost his birthright, he shines with a weird patience that makes Jay believe his promise.

“We will.”

The youngest royals disappear into the shadows on the other side of the room. And Jay is left with the clean-up, with two unconscious bodies.

One was distracted by chains around the throat, but the other was witness.

(No choice.)

Jay yanks Evie’s knife out of the dead guard. Approaches Gaston’s follower. Stabs him cleanly. Through the back, through the ribs he counts to be sure. He keeps the blade, tucking it back into the ankle strap from where Evie had borrowed it.

(No regrets until later. It had to be done. They can’t risk it.)

(He’s not allowed to feel it.)

Jay crouches and lifts Evie’s limp body. Tucking her head to his chest, he makes sure that her breathing doesn’t change as he stands. He also keeps the cloth padding in her hand, but leaves the key where it has fallen on the floor.

Finally, he spares one look at the occupied cells. There is barely time enough to meet their tired eyes and say gruffly, “We’ll try. For you, too. If we can.”

(Was there hope or just disgust with him? He didn’t look closely on purpose.)

Then he’s off, leaping the stairs two at a time, sweeping around the corner once he reaches the top and ducking into another servant’s passage. This one will lead to the opposite side of the castle from the dungeons, opposite from where the escapees will go.

He will pass through servant’s routes until they reach a place where Evie can be set down. Where she can look crumpled, wounded in defense, and he can stumble across her with whatever searcher comes to retrieve him.

A risky plan with holes and uncertainties, but until now, they have been trusted. They have been participating. They have been good little minions to their dominating parents, two of the few sons and daughters brought into the collapsed Auradon to make it run according to villainous wishes.

They might be suspected, but the evidence shows their commitment to the cause. As long as he reaches that corridor the servants use, it should work.

(Just get there. One priority.)


	3. part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist song for this chapter: "Run Boy Run" by Woodkid.

 

 

The real challenge, he thinks, is the necessary acting.

Carlos has been ready to abandon his mother for as long as her true love has been a closet of fur coats. Cruella lives up to her name with pride. Just the bittersweet taste of fresh fruit; just the sight of a real bed for him alone; just Dude’s playful barks; and that’s it, he wants to stay.

But the best part? He isn’t the only one who thinks life’s better in Auradon. Jay has his team, Evie has her confidence, and Mal has real smiles. That’s enough.

So when Evie brought them her shadowy plan, and Jay said that he’d be the face, then Carlos knew that he had to be the one to figure out where they’d go. He snuck around for the maps and the remote and he packed the bags and he was the one to jump the shadow-guards ghosting about the old guard quarters.

Good thing Maleficent couldn’t tell when her summoned guards were destroyed.

So now he waits. Carlos knows not to let anxious movement give him away. Lucky he’s had practice holding himself in, containing all the restless energy into quick bursts of response. With the sky darkening steadily, his nerves are stretched and patience is hard.

Just when he wonders if something went wrong, footsteps echo in the dark, silent corridor below.

He tilts his head, attentive, and nearly sighs aloud when Mal’s pale, strained face appears first. Out she strides, barefoot and holding a long knife in one hand. A sword is strapped to her side. Others quickly follow, a huddled mass of Auradon teens. No adults: he grits his teeth, knowing they had to be left behind. Auradon-born eyes dart nervously, even though they can see the chamber is empty of guards. Only discarded weapons remain.

Mal’s the only one to glance in his direction, relief briefly smoothing some lines around her eyes. Carlos adjusts the bag on his shoulder and tosses the other down, along with a pair of female boots. They land at Mal’s feet with a thud, quickly followed by the faint sound his own body makes as it swings down from his lofty perch.

Her expression is mostly relieved, though her tongue is sharp as ever. “Couldn’t resist?”

“Hey. Safest place. No one—”

“Ever looks up,” she finishes, slinging the bag onto her back. One foot is already in the first boot. The lines around her mouth deepen. “Plan B.”

Damn. 

He lets his eyes fall shut for a moment, mourning and angry already, hating the idea of being split from Evie and Jay. He’d hoped they were just covering the corridor still, making sure their escape went unnoticed for as long as possible. But there’s no choice, and the Auradon-born are still gaping at him for his stylish entry.

(Yeah, he knew it was cool. That’s why Mal always gives him attitude for it.)

Shaking it off, he turns to Ben who stands a hand’s-width from Mal. “There are guards in the halls, but not in servants’ tunnels. Most are real people. The villains themselves tend not to want to be anywhere without at least three solid gold serving platters nearby,” he says, rolling his eyes. “But outside of the castle, the grounds are crawling with shadow-guards. The only safe way I could find out of the city is underground.”

“Underground? What could be underground?” Audrey asks, voice softer than normal.

Ben answers. “Water tunnels. Sewers.”

“ _Sewers?_ ”

That’s better than getting caught, he thinks, but doesn’t say.

“We can probably reach the main water tunnel from right outside the kitchens,” Ben says, placating. “No sewer. But—either way, we have to go outside just long enough to reach any underground entrance. None can be accessed directly from the castle.”

“Well.” Carlos kicks a discarded blade, dropped from the hands of a disintegrated shadow-guard. They’re all over the floor, mostly kicked clear to the walls. “Pick a weapon. You’ll need one.”

Some of the princesses look shocked at the suggestion they should handle a blade. Carlos rolls his eyes at the gasps. At least the princes get it, and Lonnie grabs two with expert twirls of the wrist. Right—warrior mom.

Mal strides right through the uneasy shifting. Boots done up, blade at the ready, he sees the fighter who pretty much ran the Isle’s precarious system of territories and alliances.

They’ve been in Auradon long enough for the sight to be slightly jarring instead of comfortably familiar.

Carlos wonders if Mal thinks the same.

Either way, they have a lot of ground to cover. He turns to Ben. “You know the way?”

“Yes.” The would-be king checks to be sure the group is all together. “We need to be quick, and we need to stay together. Use your weapons wisely: these guards will not hesitate to hurt or kill you. Those who have no weapons training, stay in the center.” He waits while some shuffling movement occurs.

Mal, standing at the entrance to the next corridor, says, “Let’s go.” She starts down it without waiting for Ben to catch up to her.

Carlos covers them, trailing along at the back of the group. A couple guys from the team are with him: Quinn and Seth. He’s heard Seth called “Mr. White” by Coach before, but is unsure where quiet, calm Quinn fits in the landscape of royalty. His best guess is that his family has a connection to Esmeralda, whom he briefly glimpsed hugging his teammate on Family Day.

The intricacies of Auradon royalty are lost on him, though that doesn’t stop his analytical brain from mapping out every clue he picks up into a tapestry of connections. Knowledge of one’s surroundings is simple survival, and keeping tabs on what’s-what in Auradon kept him from crawling out of his own skin sometimes.

With these Auradon-born kids, he’s still unsure how close to stand and whether or not they’ll turn on them even harder than any Isle teen. Right now, speed-walking down a corridor together, they need each other to survive. But if the next step after the tunnels is not met with approval, he’s not sure they can be saved from the villains. 

The plan is riskier for him and Mal. Jay and Evie will be okay now, pretending to have been caught off-guard and still on display at the side of their parents. But Carlos knows that if the escape attempt doesn’t work, the Auradon kids will be locked up.

Maleficent and Cruella, though, will not let their children keep being embarrassments. Mal was already locked up and hurt, thought Carlos didn’t see how much.

No, they can’t get caught again.

But if the Auradon kids lose their spine…

He hasn’t seen them need to fight, back to the wall, to survive. The food, the beds, the new clothes, the fancy gadgets—have they ever gone without? He doubts it. Survival won’t be pretty, which it seems is all they’ve known. He’s worried about what happens after they escape.

A rustle of movement and sudden metallic clashes come from the front of the group.

:: :: ::

Her legs ache. Her shoulders throb. The hunger pangs in her stomach are fiercer than they ever were on the Isle. A dry throat stops her from speaking all the things she wants to say. The leather of her old armor feels unfamiliar on her wrists and stomach. The knife weighs her fingers down.

(Is it enough to allow Ben to stride beside her?)

Mal does not want to think but has to, has to keep her feet moving, has to plan the way out of this horrid castle. Ben knows the way and she should trust him to guide them, but the cramps in her lower abdomen are distracting and all she wants is something to ease the monthly ache. On top of every other awful part of her captivity was the relentless reminder of her own femininity.

Being of age on the Isle only meant the Muffin Man wouldn’t be so keen, and Gaston would.

Auradon was probably different, before now. (At least, she’d like to think so.)

And Ben. She can’t spare the brain to think about him in the middle of an escape, but he’s beside her. The warmth of his arm next to hers eases the chill that seeped into her bones. There’s enough trust to attempt an escape together, without hesitation on his part, but also on hers—that he wouldn’t toss her back into the cell he’d stepped out of, that he wouldn’t turn her over to the guards in exchange for the rest of them being able to leave, that he wouldn’t simply stab her himself…

(Trust. Love?)

A clanking alerts her of a guard around the corner before they emerge. She shifts her grip, darts ahead of Ben, and—

Four guards—

Raised swords—

Duck under, swing up. Twist blade between plates, bend them back, watching feet—

Clashing blades behind her, covering her back—

There. Leap and land, jabbing hard into the open space.

(Bloody, again.)

“Mal. Mal!”

Her breath comes out harshly as she eases away from the fallen body. Assessing, she sees three shadows are gone, but one body remains. Three princes and a princess stepped up to fight beside her. She rises to her feet, away from the straddle that took down a guard. The body remains as she turns away.

Ben. That’s who called her name. His eyes are too intense and she cannot meet them. (This is who she is.) But Lonnie, she can nod to, she can accept the shaken grimace mixed with pride. The other two princes, she simply nods to and moves on, eyes scanning for other injuries.

No one is. No one quite meets her eyes, either.

“We need to go faster. They’ll be missed.”

She cannot reach back out when Ben’s palm, open, rests in the space between them. She does not take it, but she does not try to out-run him, either.

:: :: ::

Carlos leaps over a guard body and understands why the pace has picked up.

He knows they have neared the kitchens when a second set of guards is left behind, wounded and knocked out, not one a shadow, not one left without bloody wounds.

And when they pause at the portal of sunlight, he almost curls back into the shadows. Almost removes himself from the escape, almost lets them head out into the unknown all on their own.

Because despite wanting to abandon his position as a wretchedly bound son, he’s also never taken the last step over the edge into complete and total disobedience. He’s been trained, he knows. Leaving is terrifying. Staying is terrifying.

Well. If it’s all going to hurt, might as well be the hurt he can live with.

Carlos follows the running mob across the courtyard, eyes darting, making sure that there are not archers waiting above or a dark fairy lounging on a balcony. To their luck, there are only shadow-guards, disintegrating with every unskilled swipe of a blade. There are other activities going on elsewhere, he knows, especially if Jay and Evie were already playing their parts, keeping the lookouts on the other side of the castle busy.

He still turns anxiously, keeping watch, as the others disappear one by one into the storm drain. He still keeps watch, even as he pulls the cover over him and then leaps down into the ankle-deep water.

He still keeps watch, even while worrying he missed something.

:: :: ::

In the throne room, a black-robed fairy raises her chin to the sky and screams her anger. Seething on her smaller dais, a woman denounces any claim to her son, clawing furiously at her own furs. A guard is ordered to kill the boy on sight by a man who strokes his beard thoughtfully. Another woman on her own throne sighs and traces her fingers on her mirror, claiming that the escaped girl must have reclaimed some of her magic to block them from sight.

The fairy snarls, leaps up, and stalks to the balcony. Kneeling in the center of the hall, bruised and chained, former kings and queens glance from the corners of their eyes to two youths standing at a window overlooking the western side of the city.

A girl with every blue strand of hair neatly in place meets the eyes of a boy whose gloved hands rest on the ledge before him. The only information they have shared is that the escapees went down the northern corridors, most likely heading directly into the city streets.

The pair turns again to look out over the darkening city as the fairy sends her fury into the skies.

:: :: ::

Dark and humid, the tunnels seem endless as the group navigates their watery way. Mal keeps her head up, chin high, despite no one truly being able to see in the darkness. Jane has cast a fairy light that leads the way.

No one asks Mal to try, but then, they all saw what happened to her magic.

She hisses when her foot slides against a misplaced stone in the water and her ankle throbs. An arm weaves through hers, holding her steady through linked elbows and a hand bracing her own. Their fingers briefly tangle and tingle.

She draws away from Ben just as quickly as he’d pulled her in. A breath, almost but not entirely a sigh, whispers by her ear, but he doesn’t say anything. Neither does she.

(Not now. Can’t now.)

In the darkness, a voice whimpers, “Can we rest?”

The fast pace has been maintained, but even Mal is starting to wonder what comes next. There has been no clanking armor, no splashing feet pursuing them, so maybe no one knows where they are—but it’s still risky to assume.

Ben says, “Yes.”

She adds, “Not for long.”

Even a short reprieve helps the ache in her thigh, though. Standing where she is, she sees the washed-pale faces of her companions, and counts them off in her head again. Ben beside her, Audrey and Chad leaning on each other. Jane cradling her fairy light as Lonnie pats her shoulder, as Doug tries to clean his glasses. Quinn and Seth framing Carlos in the back, as he meets her eyes and sends a tired smile her way. Others she knows less well: teammates Jay trusts enough for the game, Alim, Hugh, Phil, and Mervin; girls from the dorm, Ally, Megan, Aria, and Eileen; and others, Nakul whose art she’s admired, Janet who always has a science book in her hands, and can often be found with fellow animal-lover Kristian, and friendly loner Felix who seems to know and get along with everyone.

This group of royalty and nobility does not have the skills to survive on their own. She and Carlos have a lot to teach and a short time to teach it (The weight of responsibility feels oddly familiar.)

“When we get to the end of the tunnel,” she says, catching everyone’s attention immediately. “We’ll be facing a choice.”

Ben frowns. “Where we go next, you mean.”

“Auradon is taken. There’s nowhere here for you to go.” A couple of them wince. Should she have been kinder? “They know where your families have lived, places you might think to go next. They’ll look in all of them, go everywhere.”

“My mom and dad—” Aria starts.

“Jafar’s back early,” Mal cuts in. She tries to be gentle. (No snapping at the princesses.) “He was sent out to find them. He succeeded, or he’d still be out there.”

Aria's face pales and Nakul wraps one arm around her shoulders.

Ben’s crossed arms lend him weight as he suggests, “We can’t go to anyone we’d trust.”

“Then who are we supposed to go to?” Chad bursts out. “How are we supposed to help save our families without help? What are we supposed to do on our own?”

“Survive,” Mal tells him. “Your only goal right now is to survive. Not help others, not save the kingdom—” 

They don’t like that. A rustle immediately goes around the room, and Mervin snaps, “How can we _not_ try to save the—”

“You won’t save anyone if you rush back and get yourself killed.”

“We won’t—”

“We can try—”

“If we just—”

“End up like me?” A new tension zips through the air—that of unmentioned bruises on Mal’s arms, of what they saw in the dungeons.

Like a true statesman, Ben forges on. “We don’t have the resources or the strength to stage a rescue, yet. And while…Maleficent—” They all inhale at her name. “—was unspeakably harsh, you are alive.”

She can’t quite meet her eyes when she says, “Only because the public execution was scheduled in two days.”

In their squeaky world of parental love, the very thought that her own mother would actually kill her has never occurred to them. Even after their battle in the hall, even with Maleficent’s own words as a threat, she still manages to bring tears to Lonnie’s eyes again.

Low and intently, she tells them, “You cannot go back and be heroes. You don’t know how to be, not facing what she’s become. The villains your parents fought don’t exist anymore—they were made angrier, made ruthless, on the Isle. You can’t be a hero if you don’t even know how to keep yourself alive.”

The tunnels fall silent after that, only the rush of water breaking their silent breaths. She watches eyes cloud over with worry, anger banking with fear. They look at her and see the evidence of it in every mark Maleficent’s left on her body, on her magic.

Ben finally says, “We need to survive. So where do we go? If none of our homes, none of our friends or their families are safe, then where do we go to survive?”

From the back of the group, Carlos says, “There’s one place no villain would ever willingly go back.”

All eyes turn to him.

The quiet boy shrugs uncomfortably, but plunges on. “None of you are connected to it, either. And they wouldn’t look because they don’t think it can be reached anymore, even Maleficent said so.”

(He’s not suggesting…?)

Mal meets his eyes. “The Isle of the Lost.”

“You want us to go—”

“We can’t, though—”

“What if some are still—”

Mal talks over them. “Carlos is right. They’d never think of it. It’s probably the safest place you could go right now.”

They murmur, still, but seem to be waiting despite muttered grousing. Mal glances at Ben, whose contemplative face is lined with exhaustion. She waits, only patient enough to let him take a minute before she says his name.

He meets her eyes before he says, “I think it’ll work.”

(Her stomach is absolutely not fluttering.)

“Only,” he adds, “how _are_ we going to get there? We don’t exactly have the magical power to get across. There’s a bridge, but we can’t open it—”

He’s cut off when Carlos tosses a box at his face. He fumbles it, some of the others laughing at his expression, until it settles in his palm and Mal sees—

“The remote.” The one that the grumpy driver had used when they came to Auradon. The one that opened the barrier—and, judging by Ben’s expression, also activated the bridge.

“How did you—never mind. You really thought this escape through,” Ben says, respect and gratitude on his face.

Carlos shrugs again. “Best plan we could come up with,” he says, off-handedly. If she didn’t know his strategic mind, Mal would almost be tricked into thinking he didn’t consider every angle before snatching the remote from wherever it was stored.

“So, Isle of the Lost?” Eileen says, her voice wobbling. The wispy blonde hair she inherited from her mother is falling in her eyes, but she doesn’t seem to care or notice.

“Yes,” Mal replies, re-settling her backpack on her shoulders. “Time to go.”

Through the grumbling that follows as the others get ready to move, her eyes briefly catch Ben’s. In the fairy light, they seem to glimmer with unsaid things. She’s not sure what hers tell him, but he’s right next to her when they start walking again.

:: :: ::

A storm waits for them when they reach the end of the tunnel as it empties out into the sea. The water’s grown turbulent even before they could see the lightning spikes and heavy rain. At the mouth of the tunnel, they get misted with sea spray and rain. The clouds above are fierce.

Ben holds the remote in his hand. The wind howls and they huddle, speaking loudly as they dare, arguing about whether to wait or not.

“The storm is too strong,” Audrey shrieks. “Out there, we _will_ get hurt!"

“It’s her anger, a display,” Mal argues back, “not actually a weapon to hurt us. She’s blowing off steam.”

A spike of lightning strikes at a tree on the coast and it goes up in flames.

More shout for them to stay.

Carlos snaps, “Then they _will_ find us in the tunnel. She’s counting on the storm scaring us into staying in place, and making it easier for them to hunt us down!”

Ben gestures with the remote. “If we stick close together, holding hands, we can cross the bridge without being in a car. We’ll be considered one entity. The bridge should protect us from other magic if I remember the design correctly.”

“Should? I don’t know if that’s good enough,” Chad says.

“We have to take the chance,” Felix pleads. “Staying will get us caught, there’s a chance if we go across the bridge. I like those odds better.”

“Watch,” Mal says, and snatches the remote, and runs out into the storm.

Even Ben pauses, hesitant as lightning strikes again, but Mal reaches the water and—

And steps up, onto a sheer golden mist.

And the roaring wind no longer whips her hair around her head.

The rain pouring in heavy sheets between them no longer runs in trickles down her cheeks.

She reaches out one hand, beckoning—

And they follow.

:: :: ::

She passes the remote into Ben’s hand as he joins her, allowing their fingers to weave together. The tingles in her palm grow more intense as he squeezes once, a tiny bit of pressure. She turns, reaches out, latches on to Ally, and pretends not to notice the shivering in her core. (He’s so close. Is it willing?)

They start slow, not entirely trusting the golden shimmer to appear before their feet as they skim above the turbulent sea. Glancing behind at the linked human chain, she sees that it’s only as narrow as they need it to be, that it disappears behind them. Carlos, at the end of the line, gives her a giddy grin as their eyes meet.

She turns back, not wanting to admit that she’s also feeling almost giddy, but here they are, hurrying away from captivity. Nothing is solved, nothing is certain, but as she shouts, “Hurry!” and they start to run above the water, she feels…new. 

(Free.)


	4. part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist song for this chapter: “Dark Paradise” by Lana del Rey.
> 
> Phrasing edits made 7/15/2017.

In all his eighteen years of life, Ben has spent no more than three consecutive days in the wilderness during camping trips with his friends. They went on more than one such trip, without servants—bodyguards came, but carried their own belongings and cooked for themselves, not for the young royalty. A campfire and a kettle and a pan, that’s what they used, and thick sleeping bags and a tent with an open front so they could sleep under the stars. They'd laughed a lot at their own inept cooking.

He’s never spent the night cold, dirty, and hungry in a cave on the edge of the water. At high tide, the sea roils restlessly against the sheer edge of the cliff, a cliff dotted with sparse trees. Yards from their enclosure, the spray melts into the pounding rain. No, this is nothing like a camping adventure, and it is occurring while a thunderstorm rages outside.

Of an island.

Of the so-called lost.

Surrounded by classmates, led by two on whose home turf they stand, he thinks that this whole ordeal might work as a chapter in a heroic adventure. If he were able to think beyond his gut-wrenching worry and fear, he might even have laughed at the irony of escaping his kingdom’s former prisoners by running to their former prison.

(Gods and goddesses. His _parents_. The _kingdom_.)

Yeah. No one is laughing, not here. Fellow royalty and nobility alike are soaked through, gathered around a tiny fire heating at their center. Kristian and Janet knew enough to put one together without much trouble, having grown up knowing wilder areas of the world. His classmates are huddled together, normal friendships alongside sudden truces that defy their regular life. Athlete Phil and black-sheep loner Hugh, brothers who rarely show any sort of acknowledgement toward each other, are now shoulder-to-shoulder and knee-to-knee. Even Megan and Mervin, whose fiery hair clearly links them through their mother—and matches the tempers they inflict on each other over hatred of each other’s fathers—share a swath of plaid over both sets of shoulders.

Not many of them have layers to take off—their captors didn’t exactly care if their prisoners were in the same outfits for days, and actually found the damage done to coronation-worthy gowns and jackets rather hilarious. He had to admit, that had done a number on their morale, too.

He picks at the fraying cuff of his coat. The royal tailor had assured him that his coronation outfit would last for decades. Clearly, he hadn’t taken death-defying stunts into account when selecting the fabric.

To his right, Mal and Carlos engage in a debate that began with whispers and secretive body language. Cautious of the ears around them, they still stand close enough that when they begin to forget that they have an eavesdropping audience, it is easy to hear snippets. Especially when the pouring rain outside the cave tapers to a steady drizzle, the storm beginning to calm.

“—avoid the coastline.”

“Well, yes, but also the market.”

“It's the best place for how many we have."

"That's the most likely place."

"We don't know for sure—”

“Mal, you didn’t see,” Carlos insists, voice rising with just enough certainty that the second-closest member of their group, apathetic Felix, swipes a hand through his dark hair, tired eyes keenly focused without pretense on the short, until-now quiet, boy. “They weren't all there, when she welcomed allies off the Isle."

“That doesn’t mean the others are still here,” Mal argues, her shoulders stiff with all the emotions she kept from her face. “Or alive.”

And with that, Ben can no longer sit on the sidelines to watch the muffled argument play out. He scuffs one shoe against the ground and interrupts. “Who else might be here?”

Two sets of blank eyes snap to meet his.

He isn’t fooled by the look that seems to declare innocence and ignorance. There’s a slight twist to Mal’s lips that speaks of her regret, and an arch to Carlos’ eyebrow declaring him nervous.

He stands. The movement draws an end to the murmuring buzz of tired voices muttering about the weather, for lack of other topics to discuss. All attention is on the two people who have a clue what kind of land they’re standing on.

Crossing his arms, Ben adds, “We're trusting you to lead us here, because this is where you have the experience and knowledge. But you have to let us in on what we need to know. We need to be able to keep everyone safe.”

His two Isle-born peers exchange a glance that seems to carry equal parts uncertainty and discomfort. Carlos is the one to say, “After you were all…in the dungeons, the rest of the villains came from the Isle. They declared their allegiance and stuff. We—Jay, and Evie, and I—were there.” He breathes deeply. “But not _all_ of the villains were, so they might have played the power card again and declared the Isle theirs.”

Mal jumps in, then, deferential. “Or, they might not have, considering who some of them were. It’s far more likely they aren’t here.”

“Where else could they be?” Ben asks, trying to remain calm. “Where might they have gone?” Trying not to start calculating what defenses they might need, soon, while they were newly-arrived and sitting soaked-to-the-bone around a pitiful campfire in a tiny cave.

(Who is he trying to kid? He is not calm.)

In the pause before she answers, he does notice something new, a tension he did not recognize on Mal until she’s flicked her purple hair back the way he’s seen Audrey do a hundred times. So he knows it’s going to be something uncomfortable for her to admit, possibly even awful, before she says, “Not everyone on the Isle followed the rules. And if they didn’t, when the barrier fell and it was possible…Maleficent would have eliminated them.”

An awful, your-mom-also-wants-to-kill-you-now tension infects the air.

Carlos adds, “Or she didn’t get around to it, yet, and just left them here with no way off the Isle. Either way, we probably aren't alone, and we have to be careful about where we go and really stick together. So we should get to the Fortress.”

“We definitely need to keep track of each other,” Ben replies. Logical. A few murmurs arise from the others in their group. Then he asks, “What's the Fortress?”

Mal rolls her eyes. “Not a real one, it’s just called that. Carlos thinks it’s the safest place we could go, at least until we knew for sure who’s here.”

“But it is in the _marketplace_ ,” Carlos stresses.

“What’s bad about the marketplace?” Chad interjects. Ben leans forward, ready to leap in, but his teammate sounds more subdued than antagonistic, for once. “Wouldn’t we find food and other stuff we need there?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t that be a good thing?” Aria asks, her soft voice managing to sound musical despite the weary way she rests her chin in her palms.

There’s another pause, a longer one. Mal has a funny twitch to her eyebrow when she says in monotone, “Some of the unaccounted-for villains, for one. And others. That's something you need to understand right now: no one goes anywhere alone here."

“What does that mean?” Chad presses. “Like, I don’t think any of us are in the mood to take a walk through the forest, but come on, we have to find someplace for a bathroom.”

And hadn’t negotiating _that_ in the cell been decidedly awful. They all shudder a little in remembrance. 

That might be why an uproar begins when Mal replies, “No one goes _anywhere_ alone.”

“What? You can’t be—”

“I refuse to be humiliated—”

“Surely we can at least—”

“I’ll have you know, I—”

“This is what’s deemed important for an argument?” he heard curly-haired Janet drily comment to Kristian, who shrugged in response.

Ben holds up his hands and gestures for everyone to calm down. The little outburst can’t be entirely stifled, though, with more and more arguments shot through the air like weapons, until Carlos puts both fingers in his mouth and whistles.

The sharp pitch cuts neatly through all the words and brings all eyes to the blushing, furiously scowling boy. “Because even if the villains we need to be concerned about are dead, that doesn’t mean the Isle is empty. Almost none of the other kids here went to Auradon.”

“She never considered any of us to be a threat enough to eliminate,” Mal adds, her stony face betraying no further emotion than a cold fury. “They're definitely alive, and I can't predict what their reactions to you all will be."

Knowing just how dangerous Mal and her friends were, Ben begins to feel even more ill at ease in their haphazard hideaway. He’s not the only one now eying the entrance to the cave uncomfortably.

"So...they might hate us, or might not care at all," Carlos finally says. Even he's eying the storm outside. "But that's better than on the mainland."

Quinn mutters, "Not by much."

“Are they likely to have left the Isle on their own?” Nakul asks, soft voice breaking the silence.

Mal shrugs. “Maybe. Harriet would have her dad’s ship, now."

“The ship was never in Auradon,” Carlos interjects. “We kept an eye on the waters, just in case. If Hook’s alive somehow, he left around the far side of the Isle. We’d know for sure if we checked the bay.”

“The docks are where the wharf rats would be,” Mal counters, eyes flashing. “And without Jay, they won't work with us.”

“What about Anthony? He’d be holed up, and he’s never been too bad—”

“His sister and cousins are always his first priority. If the breakout happened before the last barge came…” Mal shakes her head.

“What's the barge?” Lonnie interjects. Ben, knowing already, holds back his grimace.

Mal eyes her. “Food and supplies. If the last one didn’t get here, then they’re lower on food than normal.”

Ben jumps in. “Is there anything to scavenge in the forest?” Another obscure report, another lack of detail, that made him question how the Isle was set up when he was just beginning to dream of the reintegration program.

From the look on Carlos’ face, it is the right question asked too late. “Not enough to rely on,” the younger boy said, biting one lip. “We brought some rations with us, but not enough. There wasn’t time.”

“Is there anyone you think would help us?” Megan breaks in, her usually perky voice tentative and fragile.

Carlos looks her in the eye. “Isle rules: look out for yourself first, because no one will help you.” He looked back at Ben. “That’s why the Fortress is the best place to go.”

“But it’s dangerous,” Mal adds. “The most likely populated areas are all around the marketplace. We could head to the far side of the Isle—”

“Where there’s nothing and no one,” Carlos argues. “And no scavenging. And no certainty that someone else hasn't holed up there. And it'd be harder to escape if anyone came looking.” Mal looks grimmer with each additional point Carlos makes.

“There is no escape.”

A new voice, hoarse and lilting as though holding in a laugh, lashes through their circle.

A heartbeat after realizing that no one around their fire has spoken, screams and leaping figures have put their backs to the tiny blaze and prepared themselves with swords at hand. Ben finds himself with one arm nearly looped around Mal’s, each of them having reached out as if to block the other from harm.

He feels the faintest tingle in his cheeks when their arms drop simultaneously. Mal and Carlos leap toward the empty entrance to their little cavern, and Ben almost thinks it was an illusion until he sees the downward angle of Mal’s sword.

Between their feet, he sees the face of a teen his age with a head full of long, white, waterlogged hair. He’d think the newcomer related to Carlos if not for the sheen of purple to his skin, marking him as something other than human. That, and the webs between his splayed fingers where he taps one hand on the stone ground, propping up his chin with the other.

He smirks, eyes darting between the various faces stuck frozen in the cave. “Look what the fae dragged home,” he says.

“What do you want, Uri?” Mal snarls. Ben nearly jumps in surprise, hearing—for the first time—a true threat from this beautiful girl. Her voice sounds sharp enough to cut glass.

“What I always have, and always will,” is the reply. The face turns almost apathetic, only his eyes continuing to dance about the cave. “I’d hate to think a little hook, a line, and a small bird would start singing about your little treasures back there.” The newcomer—Uri—shrugs as if to give up, arms almost unfastening from their casual pose in readiness to leave.

Mal’s arms loosen a fraction as she asks, “And are you going to meet that bird soon?”

Puzzled by the strange question, Ben almost misses the moment that Uri’s face goes from apathetic to wild delight. “Not remain,” he says. “No one, actually. I’m free. You?”

“I’m free, too.”

Surprised, Ben’s hand loosens on his sword when Uri chuckles and Mal sheathes her sword. Flummoxed faces turn to him, and all he can do is shrug at the others and lower his own weapon.

Uri’s lanky arms shift and he pushes up against the ground, a display of strength made even more impressive when his lower legs are revealed to be, unmistakably, tentacles. Ben darts a quick glance to Aria, seeing the moment she realizes who this boy is, and the flare of panic, fear, and anger that she masks in moments.

“You’re not sushi,” Mal declares, dropping to one knee.

“And you’re back,” he replies, raising one eyebrow. “Did the little fae finally find her way?”

Shoulders raise, arms cross, and suddenly Mal is on the defense. “My way?”

Ben edges closer at the sight, watching as the boy’s hands tug and tangle in the cords of various baubles around his neck and wrist. “Of course,” Uri says, finally locating and separating one of the pieces. “Your feet finally found the right path for you, Mal. It took a while, but.” He tosses the small object into her hands. “Love is _not_ weakness.”

Whatever Mal’s holding, combined with those recognizable words, it’s enough to freeze her in place. Carlos places one hand on her shoulder. “You’re better now,” he says.

Uri’s grin turns wide and true. “The barrier burst. I got my legs.” He demonstrates by moving them into a curly fan. Looking at Ben, expression far more serious, he asks, “You ever lived every day feeling like you were walking on coals?”

Something in the other’s expression indicates awareness, eerie knowledge: Uri knows who he is, and Ben can only give him an answer. “No, I don’t.”

Uri hums, tilts his head, and says, “Yes, you do.” The teen’s eyes glint silver. “Except it’s all on the inside, in the snarling, isn’t it?”

Personal, secret, and dire, Ben nearly staggers back at the uncanny knowledge this stranger possesses. And, from deep inside, comes the snarling—a raging, possessive, _beastly_ part of him, one always chained and never explicitly mentioned. Never allowed out.

By now, of course, those who are with him have all seen that side glimmer through his careful control. They tried to hide their fear, but he knows they would and are whispering. His father’s curse has lingered. He feels Chad at his shoulder almost immediately, though, a show of true friendship sometimes obscured by the other’s less admirable qualities.

Mal’s darted her eyes to him by the time the immediate burst of panic has been tamped down, and she whirls back on Uri with a sharp call of the other’s name.

And, without having recognized the glow, Ben watches as Uri’s eyes dim back to normal shades of gray. The teen blinks slowly, expression turning stoically blank. “That was unnecessary.”

“I’ll say—”

Ben calms Chad with a hand to his shoulder. “Just unexpected,” he says, leaving an opening for an explanation.

Uri shrugs. “Mother never learned to control it,” he replies. Aria’s shoulders stiffen further. “I didn’t know I had it until the barrier was gone. Now the future just comes and goes in waves, with a will of its own.”

“The future?” He doesn’t mean to ask, doesn’t want to have this private conversation around so many, but he’s startled by the information.

A wry smile mars the carefully neutral expression. “It’s not out of control.” The cryptic message is all he says before lightning flashes again behind him. His visible lower limbs twitch at the sound. “Time for me to go back to my new hiding place. A dragon-fae is rediscovering her hatred for incompetence, and the tides are strong.”

“We need your advice,” Mal says, blunt as ever. “You know the state of the Isle and we need that information. Can you come back in the morning?”

Uri gives her a delighted smirk. “A trade?”

“What do you want?”

“What I always did, and always will,” Uri replies, sliding his legs off the ledge and bracing his torso up with only his arms. “Though since Evie’s not here, I suppose you’ll do in a pinch.”

Carlos’ eye-roll and Mal’s snort are suspicious enough without Uri’s parting wink, but the laughter as he disappears from sight in the increasingly heavy downpour is what finally tips Ben from uncertainty to dislike. The possessive side, awoken, huffs in annoyance at the back of his mind.

He tunes back in as Audrey snaps, “What was that?” The princess stomps her way from the fire toward the Isle duo. “He is _Ursula’s son_. Why were you talking to him like a friend?”

Mal crosses her arms. “Because he's an ally. And more importantly, Uri knows the current situation on the Isle. It doesn’t matter who his mother was.”

From her spot by the fire, Aria snaps, “It certainly does matter.”

Mal’s eyes flash dangerously. “Did it occur to you to wonder why he said he has a new hiding place?” Without waiting for a response, she jabs again. “Or does his current misfortune not matter because of your parents’ past hurt?”

“Who cares what he’s dealing with now? His mother tried murder mine!”

“And Uri is not his mother!” Mal leans in, having closed the distance between herself and Aria. “Just like I’m not mine! If you could follow me here, you can deal with who else we meet.”

A ringing silence fell as she spins on her heel and marches to the very edge of the cave. The increasingly heavy rain starts to spritz her, but she doesn’t move from her wide-planted stance at the entrance.

Aria tucks herself back into a pair of friends and Ben stands, uncertain, not liking the way his companions are fracturing. Carlos sidles up to him.

Ben meets his eyes and asks, quietly, “Why does Uri have a new hiding place? What would have happened to the old one?” Kristian and Felix to tilt their heads to hear.

“Maleficent hated Ursula,” Carlos replies. “No way she would have left her alive. My guess is that their old place is gone. That, plus gaining his magical abilities when the barrier broke, means that Uri could truly _be_ in the ocean instead of just swimming in the tiny patch of it at the docks.”

Pieces start to click together. “He was a magical creature, cut off from magic. That’s why he was always in pain.” Unable to transform the way his body was designed, unable to get into the ocean the way he was meant to… While many of his subjects only had one shape, he knew a mermaid who’d given up her mother’s choice of a human life to be in the ocean again—claiming she never felt right until she was in the water.

Melody would be missing her younger sister. A sister who always said she felt completely right on land, but was now stuck here and sobbing angrily to her sympathetic friends. It was unfortunate luck that Uri was born more sea-person than land-person.

“It’s amazing that he’s okay,” Ben murmured.

“He’s not, though.” Carlos raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you wonder why he wasn't quite making sense?”

A knot deepened in Ben’s stomach. “I thought that was from his magical abilities.”

“Nope. Being in constant pain all your life can do that to you.”

Carlos spoke about pain as normal, as expected. In a way that makes Ben want to ask: _and was pain also your everyday experience?_

That twists his gut into a massive, Gordian knot, and drives him to pat Carlos on the shoulder and move to where Mal stands, braced against the wind and rain.

He slows as he nears her, angry lines in every part of her leather-suited frame. The outfit is like an armor, like she’s covering up whatever wounds and scars she now carries. He has to force the memory of blood from his mind. But he makes sure to stand carefully, not directly behind her, and only halts in her peripheral line of sight.

He lets her choose when to speak, mostly because he does not know what to say.

Pulling away from his outstretched hand is a clear enough signal. So is the way her eyes keep darting away seconds after they meet his own. If she wants him close, or nearby, or even just within sight, he can do that for her. A fragile love lingers between them—but until their lives are no longer in danger, he’s not sure if she wants to think about it.

Standing watch, silently, at her side…he can do that.  

:: :: ::

Not only did Ben stand watch with her for a long chunk of the night, but when Carlos came to relieve them, he gently nudged her towards the fire and took a place further from it. Between her and the wall, actually.

His presence helped soothe the nightmares. The lingering chunks of her mother’s voice is in her brain, the echo of her in every breath taken on this wretched Isle of the Lost. She is lost again, all right, swirling in the memories and emotions she forbade herself to feel again. Even referring to her only known parent as a parent is supposed to be off-limits, and she still keeps slipping up.

On top of that, the warm outline of her first kiss was at her back all night. She wanted to reach back for him. She wanted another kiss. She wanted to cut those feelings out of her with a knife, excise them out into the world and leave them behind. What is she, a former villain-in-training, supposed to do with those warm emotions? Nowhere was that question more evident to her than on the cold floor of a cave.

And, in the morning use of a nearby tree as a bathroom, with Jane nervous and blushing on the other side, she knew that when they came back he’d look up and smile at her with an emotion in his eyes that he doesn't realize is more terrifying than the thought of Maleficent’s rage. Despite the tension among their group of co-habiting busybodies who were all grinding on each other’s last close-contact-overload nerve—he would look at her like that, and smile.

(Cannot handle it. Unstably ally. Focus on that.)

She’s right to correct her attention when the sea surges below them in the morning light. He’s later than she anticipated, but not so late as to make her wary. Shining droplets cascade down as he propels himself up into the air, latches on to the side, and hauls himself up. She’s ready for his appearance, ignoring the displeased mutters of hungry, tired, and dirty royalty all lingering in the cave’s shadows.

Mal seats herself on the dirt next to him. Without prompting, she holds up her trade: strips of dried meat and a fruit-nut mix from the morning’s rations, a part of her own share sneakily hidden from Ben’s watchful eye. Carlos had supplemented it with some of his portion, too.

(Ben has to be making that Annoyed Prince Face behind her.)

Uri’s neutral expression flashes into delight. That’s always been the thing about him—he never has hidden his emotions, and he’s always on the furthest edges of all his feelings. Fury, delight, despair. Never mild happiness, rarely serene. As a villain-in-training, she’d seen it as a tool to exploit—and it was also what made him a valuable secret as an ally. Incapable of secrecy, Uri’s main line of defense was his uncanny ability to predict movements, gauge social temperatures, and provide an extra food source to Isle inhabitants that only he—or his mother, who never bothered—could reach.

Sure enough, he grins widely and one tentacle lifts up a seaweed-strung line of fish. There's enough to feed everyone in their cave. The gesture means that he'll want something else in trade for his information later, but Mal can see the subtext: he knows that they will be around later to make his request. He has good news for them.

The string of fish ends up in Carlos' hands and he takes them back toward their campfire. Uri wraps up the traded food with care, only turning to her once the task is complete. She waits patiently and ignores the mutters that pick up the longer he fiddles with his trade.

Finally, he turns his gaze back onto her. “The alliances remain. The dragon-fae decided to scour the Isle once she’d taken her false throne, and only took those she considered her followers. The rest, she burned.”

Mal swallows hard, hearing the ache of loss in Uri’s voice. “I’m sorry.”

“Mother didn’t care,” he shrugs, tapping at his lip. “It wasn’t the first time she died.”

(Awkward. What to say?) Mal tries to redirect him. “Who else is still here?”

“We should swim to the bay,” he replies, reaching out to grasp her wrist delicately. His fingers form a loose circle. “The marketplace will be full with the remains.”

Oh, no. “She burned them in the marketplace?”

(She cannot see the bodies. Cannot see what her mother wants for her.)

Uri blinks at her, frown light upon his forehead. “The elders burned on every street. Just the alliance remains, in all their halls.”

Mal sighs. “So only the descendants are left. And they still follow the rules?”

“They call. A new queen must rise from the ashes.”

(New queen?) “What do you mean?”

“The queen, the queen. She must sing.” Uri’s eyes glow silver. “And she must find her wings.”

Uncertain of Uri's newfound magical gift, she debates demanding a clearer statement. Instead, she sighs: maybe it would make sense later. Mal places her free hand on his own, still wrapped around her wrist. “Okay. We’ll go to the marketplace. Will you go ahead for us to warn off their guard?”

“There is no guard,” Uri replies. His lips twist up into a smirk and his eyes fade back into their regular shades. “We should swim to the docks, now. The marketplace will be full.”

With that, he lets her go and slips back over the edge into the sea.

Mal stands as Ben steps out of the cave, his eyes scanning the sea instead of meeting hers. “So, he already told them we were here?”

“Seems that way,” she replies, rolling her shoulders and attempting to appear unconcerned with the unanticipated move. Predictable Uri? Not anymore. “He must have known we’d be going there.”

“I don’t like it,” Chad says. “He betrayed us.”

“No,” Felix counters, “his abilities are precognitive. Maybe he liked the outcome he saw.”

“But will we?” Janet points out. "I thought we were going to this Fortress. You said it was safest." 

Carlos raises his hands. "To hide, yes. But if they know we're here then we can't sneak in and stay hidden anymore."

"I still prefer that plan," Chad mutters. Audrey nods sharply. 

Janet takes a ribbon to her massive curls and firmly declares, "If Mal says marketplace, then that's what we should do." An echo of her father's wild-man voice rolls in her tone, confident and determined.

Aria looked ready to argue, until Ben halts all further speculation.

“We have to believe that it will work out,” he declares, with a kingly demeanor: serious, and a bit foreboding, he makes eye contact one by one. “We’re taking a risk by being on the Isle, but we’re also placing our trust in each other. Mal and Carlos know this place. They know their peers, their allies, and what to expect from them. We’re following here, and I have faith that we will be fine. As long as we stick together and pay attention.”

He turns to her. All Mal can think to say is, “Uri doesn't set traps. He escapes them. If he says they’re waiting for us, then they are. And if he doesn’t say that they’re going to hurt us, then they won’t.”

The Aurodonians appear to believe her, but only just. She only lingers on Carlos for an instant for the brief awareness to flicker between them—that Uri did not say they are headed toward a welcoming alliance, only that they are expected.


	5. part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist song for this chapter: "Panacea for the Poison" by Flobots.
> 
> Note: even with long spans of time between updates, this is in-progress unless otherwise stated.
> 
> Phrasing edits made 7/16/2017.

“No.” A quivering sword embeds itself into the wood in front of his eyes. “We’re doing just fine on ahr’ own!” 

Anthony makes a show of sighing, handkerchief coming out of one breast pocket to pat around his nose. For show, all for show. Appearances matter, after all, even in these times. “How much was left in the storehouse this morning, Harriet?”

She tosses her turbulent blond curls from one bared shoulder to the coat-covered other. “A feast an’ a half!”

“Enough for a week,” comes the softer reply. His eyes dart to his younger sister, Asya, whose fingers unceasingly move a needle in and out of worn fabric. She does not look up from the work.

“Shut your mouth!”

“There’s no point lyin’ to yourself,” says a fourth voice. He neatly folds his handkerchief back into place in his pocket as the owner of that voice approaches from her corner. The tiny skulls bunched into a protective charm on one shoulder clink softly as Freddie nears.

Harriet turns, inherited red coat swirling about her legs—as much as stiff, stained fabric can swish, anyway. “I live by the Code—I ain’t a liar!”

“The food’s not the point,” Freddie replies. “You’re madder than a wet hen over the facts, Harriet. No more barges are comin’ out here, ever. And that means we don’t have enough.”

Harriet wrenches her sword out of the wood, sparing a flicker of her green gaze to spear angrily into Anthony’s own eyes. He would be bothered, would respond to the blatant disrespect, but many of their foundational rules are now smoke.

Here he stands, in counsel with the other leaders of the haphazard Isle territories, in an unprecedented alliance between the gangs. They’ve always lived in Codes and rules, secrecy and backstabbing, defending and offending in turn. There wasn’t much on the Isle of the Lost, but there was enough to own. Streets, buildings, people. Divided amongst themselves, watched over and fiercely defended, the alliances they built and conflicts they weathered kept a delicate Isle balance.

Until the barrier fell.

Or rather…Maleficent returned, after it fell.

Anthony turns his gaze out the glassless window frame, casting a watchful eye over the marketplace below. His mother had gotten her way in owning this house, one of the few times she was given anything preferential by her own mother. One of her few prides left, trapped as she was for the crime of being her mother’s daughter, for behaving as she was raised.

The elder Lady Tremaine and her two daughters had disappeared in that first blast of dragon’s temper. His family, gone in a heartbeat, at least did not linger the way Harriet’s own does with infected wounds.

All the gathered-together wounded are slowly dying. Medicines and bandages never came before on any barge, and never would now.

Below the second-story windowless frame of this room, he can see scorched earth and claw marks, ruptured stones and repaired pathways. The Isle is as it has always been, in most ways, even with newly burned scorches. The marketplace appears abandoned—just in case the dragon-queen returned—but behind doors and broken windows, the Isle is still of the Lost.

Of the Dead.

Harriet rages because it is safe to let her. Anthony turns back to the room, watchful. A fifth shadow rises slowly from the chair in the furthest corner.

“You think we should welcome the little fae and the black spot that surely follows?” Harriet sneers, swinging her blade against an invisible foe.

“She’s bringing others, too. From Auradon,” Asya says, needle plunging into the fabric.

“And her mates—surely they’ll want us all at to dance the hempen jig ‘afore considering us allies! And finish off the wounded you’re keeping, Asya.” Her scowl is fierce and her eyes are glimmering wetly. That latter fact receives no remark.

Freddie shakes her head, dreadlocks catching on the bone stitching of her similarly inherited suit jacket. “Doesn’t matter whether they’re snakes in the grass or in high cotton. Maleficent declared her daughter a traitor.”

Patting at his pocket, Anthony finally interjects, “She must resume her place.”

Harriet’s colorful cursing is brief. Freddie says, “She left. Blood out.”

“She never did, though,” he reminds them, crossing his arms. “None of them did. Auradon snatched them without warning.”

Harriet’s lips stretch into a smirk. “Doesn’t matter. Blood in, that’s the Code.”

He shrugs: no need to argue that point. If it gets Harriet on-board, then so be it. Freddie raises one eyebrow, but that’s all. Her jagged nails smooth the edges of her fraying skirt. “Reckon that’s for the best.”

Asya’s pursed lips are clear: she is not yet convinced.

A shift of movement, and the last person in the room steps forward. Without a word able to pass between her lips, Gaelle claims their eyes.

Nodding to Anthony, she traces a looping symbol in the air that she’s come to use for their alliance. An “M” and an uplifted arm. With that, Gaelle has given her support. And Asya finally nods her consent to their agreement.

Harriet and Freddie go back to squabbling over the food stores, Asya egging each on with carefully placed comments.

Gaelle’s steady, even breathing nears and settles into place beside him. He forces himself not to look down at her. Appearances matter, after all.

:: :: ::

She watches.

This is survival. The Isle demands it. Gaston did, too, though he would have believed that his only demand was for his daughter to know her place. Gaelle’s father thought she’d be better at it without her words, or so she thinks.

He didn’t exactly explain, when he did it. He must have thought the knife was self-explanatory.

Gaelle joined her gang when she left her house that final time, finding it harder to express any thought—but not impossible. The gang took her when it became clear she needed no words to fight. Rising up to the top took time, but eventually she had all their loyalty. Even as she rose, she kept an eye on the various other gangs, other territories—not to take them, but to know how far to push back.

Mal’s ascension to the top was swift, brutal, and certain: none would topple her, especially not once she had selected her captains. A prince of all street thieves, even those from opposing territories; a mechanical mad genius whose creativity and uncanny knowledge set even their elders on edge; and a whip-smart beauty of a poisoner, with deadly accuracy from a distance.

As loners, they were formidable: as a pack of wild wolves, they could have conquered the whole of the Isle.

Instead, they settled on the Fortress and the marketplace as their own—the center, the place where all the territories’ borders met.

All the deadlier was their power when, once conquerable, the gangs were left to run wild. Mal chose only to interfere when the bated breath with which they waited turned into minor scuffles between each of their gangs. Then, it was to stop the conflict with brutal force unleashed on all involved in that conflict—before reinforcing the territorial boundaries with warnings to each leader. In this way, a strange balance was created.

When the four chosen to be abducted to Auradon were gone, the alliances remained—not just out of fear, Gaelle noticed, but because each leader seemed not to care for a disruption to the mutually-unsatisfied balance they had achieved. All that they had to squabble over on the Isle was accounted for and in check. Even after the dragon fae swept through with her fire, they hid and emerged onto an Isle where their authority was absolute.

And now, half of the wild wolves return. They stride from the forest, taking a path close to the wharf to reach the marketplace.

Gaelle watches, and she is interested. Uri on his human legs leads a sizable group of Auradonians into the marketplace, into the territory that Mal took for her own. In their usual Isle gear, she and Carlos stride into their home without a hint of softness. They look the way they did before leaving, from jackets down to the tilt of each chin. Auradon has not taken Mal’s stride from her, nor Carlos’ darting eyes. He notices the shadows lingering, the shapes inside of them. The angle of his shoulders suggests it.

She does not know if these Auradon-weak followers also see the remnants of the Isle all around them. Their eyes don’t appear to catch on the shadows, so she doubts their observational skills.

Yesterday Uri told the five leaders of the gangs that there was unleashed danger in these newcomers. His emerging powers are neither trusted nor proven false: Gaelle is not so fool as to discard the possibilities in the sea-witches’ eyes.

The brown-haired man-boy close to Mal’s back, chin tilted up, must be the king’s son. That tilt is not defiance or even confidence—it is trained into his neck, and he walks with his eyes wide and wondering.

He looks like the tattered photo liberated from Yen Sid’s office at the school when the old sorcerer disappeared and all that remained of him were his books and papers. So, too, do the others match photographs that she flipped through.

Besides the king’s son called Ben, there are nineteen. Twenty-two arrivals in all, and at her side Anthony breathes out. “The blond boy, walking arm in arm with the brunette. That is Cinderella’s son. The brunette is Aurora’s daughter.” He would have remembered the photographs, too. “Chad. And Audrey.” And names.

From her window, Harriet slides a whetstone down her blade. “There are two near the back, nudging at each other all quibbling-like—Megan and Mervin, wasn’t it?” She snorts. “Almost look like twins, despite knowing better. Queen Merida was like your ma’ Asya—couldn’t keep her legs together, eh?”

Anthony stiffens, forcing himself to relax again under the gently-reminding brush of her hand. Gaelle bites back a smile as his younger sister snaps, “At least I know _both_ my parents.”

It could easily blossom into a full argument, but Freddie breaks in with a casual, “So that’s Nakul. He looks like his father, all right.” The father who escaped Doctor Facilier’s schemes, Gaelle recalls, pinpointing the darker-skinned boy who walks alongside a girl with wild ringlets. Janet, named for her mother, carrying the wild-man status of her ape-raised father behind every cautious movement. There are a third and fourth boy trailing along to her other side, also wide-eyed and watchful. One bears a distinctive nose that his father always despaired of on the wanted posters of his youthful days as a thief. Felix, then. The other, with ruffled sandy hair, must then be his closest companion Kristian, the Ice Queen’s nephew.

“Is that the dwarvish boy?” Anthony asks, his tone implying disinterest. Gaelle scans until she sees one with the look of a dwarf, tagging behind Chad and arm-in-arm with a mousy little one who carries magic around her.

Freddie replies, fingers clenched on the windowsill. “Doug, son of Doc, and his companion is definitely the lovely Jane. Fairy Godmother’s girl. By Dickens, they sent two to you, huh, Tremaines?”

Harriet cackles a quiet, “Blood in…”

“There’s a warrior,” Asya breaks in, leaning forward as if the distance will ease. “The one with the black hair, carrying the sword like she knows how to use it.” Lonnie, Gaelle recalls, recognizing the one with discipline amongst the girls who trip into each other. And a less incompetent, but still fearful and twitchy girl, with wispy blonde hair, is at her side. Gaelle matches her finally to a legend about a cauldron, to Queen Eilonwy, whose young daughter Eileen is relatively unknown and unimportant.

Harriet hoots, “Ooh, Ally is with them! Better keep an eye on Cora, Gaelle—she’ll be squalling like a summer storm when she figures that one out!”

Gaelle takes note of the girl’s twitchy expression: Ally, whose mother Alice made the Queen of Hearts a most vile neighbor. She’ll definitely have to keep an eye out for her own captain’s wrath—she inherited her mother’s temper, and more.

“Best warn Uri off,” Anthony says to her in response. “The red-head is Ariel’s youngest, isn’t she? Aria? Not much like her older sister if she’s chosen legs and land.”

“What up with the matching bookend boys, though?” Harriet snorts, breaking the short silence that had fallen while Gaelle scanned the approaching faces. “Did the would-be-king just bring his what’s-it-called team, tourney?”

Asya points out, “Their parents would have been captured, too. Look, Snow White and Jasmine’s sons—Seth and…Al?”

“Alim,” Harriet corrects. Her eyes alight with wickedness as she adds, “And the Hercules twins Hugh and Phil—dad’s a demi-god and they sure do look it! Look at their arms—those two might actually be delicious…”

“Skirt stays on, girl,” Freddie mutters, and pretends not to notice Harriet’s pouting glare.

Gaelle reminds herself that the cluster of tall, handsome boys may be pretty and may have muscles, but they are certainly not used to the fighting that comes in every day of Isle life. They can be fought as easily as the Auradon girls. Even the last boy, Quinn, whose father was a golden solider and whose mother was a Romani dancer, wouldn’t have the insight necessary to beat any of them.

This exercise has been proven illuminative. Anthony sums it up. “Lonnie learned some fighting from her mother. Quinn may have, though his stance doesn’t suggest it.”

“Janet seems scrappy,” Asya volunteers. “Tarzan may have taught her a thing or two about survival in the jungle.”

“The Isle isn’t a jungle.” Freddie snorts. “And the rest look like they couldn’t find their behinds with both hands in their back pockets.”

Anthony nods, considering, already strategizing. Gaelle turns away to watch them continue their approach.

There is no place for weakness on the Isle. Still. Gaelle sees magic on auras, an attack-ready enclosing of the weakest members of the party in the middle, and the strategic pace kept by their leader—not too fast, but with determination and leaving little time to lay a trap. Perhaps they are not the most prepared of allies, but there is potential to make them useful. To gain what they want.

Especially if they want their homes back with the same fierceness that the gangs want food, shelter, and safety.

Gaelle doesn’t bother with her own version of speaking. She simply turns from the broken window and heads for the stairs. 

:: :: ::

The rickety wooden stalls are a bitter (familiar) sight. They are empty, devoid of food and supplies, just like in the days before a barge delivery. Mal has to wonder just how many of the remaining residents of the Isle have realized that those deliveries are over.

For that matter, how many of have survived? The scorch marks on stones and planks tell their own story, but there’s no way to know just by looking. She can feel eyes on her face. (So, Uri definitely has not been alone on the Isle.) But she cannot tell how many gang members are hiding in the shadows.

There’s no point wondering about the adults.

She walks tall and confident. She walks like she has every right to be on these stones, like she can take on anyone who tries to stop her. (But her cramps have returned and her hands are aching from the tightness of her fists and—) Carlos, at her side, is twitchier than he’s ever been when covering her flank. He doesn’t like the odds of this engagement.

Too bad. The Fortress is ahead, cold dark shadows marking every knocked-out stone. It looks like something large slammed into the structure. Of course. Maleficent would have been furious at more than her enemies when she came back.

Ben, at her side, murmurs, “Is it always this quiet?”

She whispers back, “They’re watching.”

That stifles the other little mutters and hissing that the group started up the longer they walked into town. In the forest, they obeyed just fine—but seeing buildings, empty and dirty? Seeing the blackened stones and littered trash? The murky waters of the bay as they wove along the shore before heading inland? No, some of these precious princesses and princelings could not contain themselves.

Mal wonders if they realize how long they’ve been watched. Perhaps she should have shut them up earlier.

Uri only seems to find it amusing, nearly dancing as he is at her other side. Seeing the magic transform him back into human legs had been strange and troubling: though he didn't say, his expression kept flicking flashes of pain. The rest of the time, his dreamy, unfocused gaze sets her on edge. (What future is he so enamored with, that he forgets the dangers of the present?) Mal almost wants to trip him—

A door opens.

She halts where she is, having already pinpointed which house it came from—a stately one, somehow managing to appear repaired despite clearly missing several windows and suffering a scorch mark at the base. The door is still firmly affixed by the hinges and squeaks only slightly in the silence of the abandoned marketplace.

Half-obscured by the shadows within the house and the overcast morning clouds, a girl nearly a woman stands. Mal knows her on sight.

She is just a year older than Mal herself. Tall, willowy Gaelle could have fooled enemies into thinking she had no physical strength. Playing that angle might have been her ploy in another time. But it was never an option for her.

Looking as she does, none could mistake her for weak. Her very existence commanded respect. 

Clad in a short red dress, brown belt, and brown boots, she echoes her father down to the hunting knife on her hip. The resemblance ends as she steps into the gleaming sun, daylight highlighting the jagged scars marring her face. They crisscross her lips, ravage her right cheek and jaw, and end at a missing earlobe. Her outstretched palm bears marks of lost defense, as does the one that remains hanging at her side.

Dramatic gasping from innocent Auradonian mouths seems to amuse Gaelle. Mal’s never heard anyone on the Isle react that way, not even the morning her un-bandaged face reappeared in the marketplace crowds.

Mal indicates for Carlos to stay back, for the rest of their group to stay together, as she separates herself. Gaelle’s approach is almost stately, rather than purely predatory.

(Did she dare think it could mean…that?)

Squaring her shoulders, she says, “I’m back. And you’d best not get in my way.”

Gaelle’s twisted mouth appears to flash a smile. She steps neatly to the side, half-circling, eyeing those behind Mal with the cold interest of a hunter. Her eyes rest for a long moment on someone standing close to Mal’s shoulder.

She shifts in front of Ben. When she realizes what she’s done, it’s too late. 

From the open doorway, a masculine voice calls out, “Your prince won’t come to harm before negotiations are done.”

Mal turns only her head, eyeing the pressed suit and carefully-folded handkerchief, the trappings of nobility that only the Tremaine family could grasp at on the Isle. That house was known for a certain type of trade, and the money that comes along with such an old profession. Dark, wavy hair brushed smooth, Anthony walks to the street like there is no grime under his shoes.

He paces, too, in the opposite direction from Gaelle, coldly eying the Auradonians that she led into this snake’s den. She bites out a sharp warning. “None of them will be hurt. They’re mine.”

“Even the ones trembling too hard to hold a blade?” he asks, voice dripping in feigned disappointment. “Mal, you used to have such high standards.”

Gaelle’s gesture caught her eyes, bringing her back in time to see a hand pressed to her chest, then waved in a wobbly arc through the air. She makes a quick symbol with her hand. Anthony laughs and sweeps one arm in a wide arc to encompass Mals’ group. “Yes, she’s right—we do need our niceties, even here, for these of Auradon’s royalty.” Abruptly, his face returns to a cold mask. “Blood tells, you know.”

(So, more likely to be…that.)

Mal separates herself further, stepping closer to her former allies, eying each for any sign. “Certainly. Except, regardless of who I choose to be mine, you should remember that I always back up my claims. You don't know what new tricks I stole.”

It’s a bluff, a weak one, since her magic is still stolen from her (leaving a gaping gnawing hole in her chest that craves to be filled oh the _ache_ ). But she does have a secret, one that was not stolen—a gift from Uri, a talisman he must have known carries a burst of power. Nestled as the warped medal is against her heart, she can feel it throbbing in time to her pulse.

Anthony raises one eyebrow, ever the showman, and purrs, “Do tell."

“I’d certainly love to hear about it,” comes a throaty voice out of the shadows. Mal has to turn her head the other direction, witnessing the shadows themselves unfold from around a girl draped in a short black dress, skulls and dreadlocks fluttering in a non-existent breeze. Her green eyes dim from a glow into regular orbs that flash with mirth. Her bare feet clink rings and anklets against the ground as she circles behind Mal’s group, blatant in her own interest in the others.

So, Freddie also has magic.

Just as she nears too close to Nakul, Carlos steps in front of her. The prince looks frightened, almost furious, and certainly unsure what to do about the girl inches away from him. She pouts for a moment. “But his bone structure is so pretty,” she says without context, then backs away with a wild laugh.

“Enough,” Mal snarls, cutting any of her companion’s voices off before they can rise. “You’re still blocking the way, and I have a Fortress to return to.”

“You know it can’t be that easy,” Freddie sing-songs, lifting herself up with the shadows to crouch on a fence. “You…left.”

(Definitely going to be…that.)

“Not by choice.”

“Doesn’t really matter,” Anthony said. He examines his nails casually.

From above, a sneering voice finally says, “You know the Code. Best of any of us, you know it.”

Mal does not look up. “I was wondering where the wharf rat had gone.”

“Oi!” A rough rub of cloth on fibers comes, and then the heavy thud of boots on stone and the singing of metal against scabbard. “Say it to my face, you lily-livered weakling fae!”

“Weak!” Mal whips around, dodging the first slash of a pirate’s sword. “Says the pretty girl who’s never set sail!” she says, to the face of a blonde whose ringlets bounce around her face. She’s tossed aside the heavy red coat and stands there in white ruffled shirt and black pants, her booted feet standing firm on the ground. The rope she’d tied to the balcony is still swinging lazily behind her as she bears her teeth in Mal’s face.

“Pretty,” Harriet huffs, steamed like nothing else at the sound of the hated adjective. “I am not pretty!” She tosses her sword away.

“So pretty your father can’t stand half of his crew for their comments anymore, right? Is he letting you back on the ship yet?”

Harriet’s eyes flare with a wildness that is more than anger. In the middle throwing her punch, she sees the blonde’s lip curl more clearly than her incoming punch. “Can you shift to dragonet yet, or are you still disappointing your mother?”

(Make. Her. Bleed.)

Mal kicks her in the ribs.

And then, it’s on.

The insults fade away and all that’s left is the language of violence. They kick, dodge, and punch. Harriet’s hands hook like claws and Mal feels like she can fly through the air, so fast she darts around blows. Hyper alert, Mal watches for an opening, waiting to pound another bruise in return for each one she’s received.

They are brutal in their attempts to make the other bleed.

Finally, Harriet misjudges a step. Mal’s knuckles scrape Harriet’s lip into her teeth and slices the thin skin with the pressure.

They both freeze, seeing blood on Mal’s fist, and Harriet shrieks her anger.

She lunges, and Mal lifts her fists—

A figure appears between them.

The girls, as one, glare at Gaelle, who looks calmly back. From behind her comes Anthony’s stern reminder. “Blood out, blood in. Harriet, you bled first.”

The rest of the world is coming back into focus. Mal blinks as she sees Carlos’ firm nod, and as the rest of those standing around him—behind Anthony—gape, glare, or stare. Ben meets her eyes and she sees confusion and pride and something she can’t name. (No—think about that later.)

Harriet spits on the ground, dropping her raised fists. “Blood in,” she says.

Mal steps back, her own fists falling open. The fine muscles tremble. “Blood in,” she repeats, raising her chin confidently.

“Welcome back, fae-queen of the Isle,” says a new voice.

(…What?)

Mal turns back to the Tremaine house. A delicate-looking young girl steps out of the doorway and down to the streets. She looks unlike anyone else on the Isle: Anthony’s doing, to keep her protected and uninvolved in the usual Isle activities. Like her mother, she dons makeup and jewels, but unlike her mother, there is no harshness in the lines of her face. Instead, there are lines of sadness and weariness. Whatever else life was like in the Tremaine house, Asya at least knew her brother’s care, though it appeared a cold and harsh one in public.

Yet, as Mal watches, Anthony does not put up all the same barriers he uses whenever Asya or his cousins are around. The younger sister steps close to him and he doesn’t soften, doesn’t smile, not exactly obvious in his own manner. But she shows it, because she speaks with the confidence that comes from knowing that while she doesn’t have the fighting prowess of the other gang leaders, she doesn’t need it while Anthony stands beside her.

Still. Mal doesn’t bite back her scoff at her bizarre new title. “What mushrooms have you been eating? Fae, yes, obviously, but even Mo—Maleficent was no queen here.”

Asya smirks. “Well, she’s declared herself that now. And besides, we need some kind of title for your role. What else do you call leading all the gangs?”

“Nothing,” Mal suggests drily. “Because I lead my own, same as you lead your own.”

“Now you know that’s untrue.”

She wants this conversation to end. “Are you accusing me of something? Besides, how can I be a ruler of the whole Isle? I only protect my own, and that's them.” Her thumb points over one shoulder.

Freddie interjects herself, stepping down from her perch. “Mal, we’re all that’s left—your mother didn’t leave any adults alive to contest us.”

Mal scowls, feeling unease in her stomach. She doesn’t look at her Auradonian companions to gauge what they think of her Asya-bestowed title, only concentrates on what she must. “All I’ve reclaimed is my own territory—”

“Your territory is all of us,” Asya counters. “Who else could get everyone to agree that our borders would stay in place, no more fighting over them?”

(That’s just—I wanted control, that’s what it was, not—)

Mal opens her mouth to argue, and then is cut off when Freddie adds, “And what, do you think we’re the ones who had a hankerin’ on our own for talking about how the barge’d be split? That was all you, sugar.”

Harriet, grouchily as she smooths out her coat, meets Mal’s gaze with a stern glare. “You got the wharf rats to me. You made sure the lost ones in the marketplace ended up in Freddie’s territory.”

(This sounds almost like good, but it can’t be, they, we, are evil...)

Anthony stepped closer. “Only you could force all the gangs to toe the line, Mal, because you were the one who drew it. We may have maintained a careful alliance while you were away, but none of us could command each other.”

“And none of us can stop the infighting without you,” Asya says. She shrugs. “No one’s happy, food supplies are shrinking, and…well. She killed a lot of people.”

“We’re the Isle of the Lost, alright,” Freddie sighs. For a priestess of dark arts, she looks entirely unhappy about that prospect. Her eyes glimmer with rage when she meets Mal’s eyes. “The Left-Behind, the ones she expects not to survive. The Left-For Dead. Isle of the Dead.”

A dozen tiny voices pick up the phrase and echo it, all around, “Isle of the Dead, the Dead, the Dead…”

Mal feels like she has been struck by electricity again. Echoing in her ears are the words of her allies, and now they combine with the voices of gangs that have surrounded them in silence until now. A few faces emerge from the alleyways or from behind the market stalls, wary faces, watching the newcomers with calculating interest. Lost boys and girls who clearly have not been eating even as much as Mal and her own used to eat, who are dirty and tired and sad, who have not fully embraced evil and revenge because there are now no longer adults around to tell them that such is their inheritance.

She’s struck, suddenly, by the fact that the villains are gone from the Isle. The gangs are their families now, to all of them not just the unwanted ones who were cast out from their parents’ house as soon as the parent was bored. Mal recognizes a few faces, but does not care to look further.

(What if—)

No. It’s too much.

Too much, after having just spent so much time in Auradon, after having felt her heart tugged and torn between the concept of good and the experience of evil. Back here on the Isle, her memory awakened, she recalls the pointlessness of hoping for better, of wondering. After her great losses and her new, fragile gains of additional people in her own gang, people who are so confused and bemused by everything around them that she sees tears and wailing coming closer—and not just from the girls.

They might follow her lead, as they always have, but Mal just wants… “My Fortress.” The other gang heads look at her. “I am going to my Fortress. Leave us alone for the day.”

Anthony raises an eyebrow, but he’s the only one to express any question at her decision. The others fade away into the alleys, the shadows, or pick their way to the wharf. Asya returns to the Tremaine house and her brother pauses at the door.

He does not look at them when he says, “The Fortress is yours, but remember: there are many descendants in these streets. Not all of us have given up our parents’ rage.”

Anthony, whose coldness carries the memory of his mother’s unfair imprisonment, quietly closes the door to the Tremaine house behind him. With a single glance, Carlos slides himself into place beside Chad, nudging him into the center of the group beside Jane. He protests until Mal snarls, “That wasn’t a warning, that was a threat. Move.”

Then, they are quiet.

Uri hums absently to himself as he walks them to the crumbling remains of the Fortress. Mal takes one quick look inside the doorway and determines that it is, indeed, a fortress: the insides are still fine, despite the battered outer appearance. Besides—they don’t really have a choice about where to settle in. When she fully emerges, directing her Auradon companions inside, Uri has turned to face them. “The sea,” he says, simply. “The sea.”

Mal gently slides herself in between him and Aria, for his sake more than hers, but he still speaks as the girls pass into the dark. “Many of us only want the sea and nothing more. No battered ships, no sunken dreams, no sea-foam and screams.” He starts humming again as he turns away, beginning his walk back through the marketplace.

Mal grabs Aria’s arm and shoves her into the Fortress, following swiftly when the girl struggles. “That—he is taunting me—”

“That was an apology,” she snaps, rolling her eyes. “And a promise that he won’t hurt you.”

“Liar!”

(Too much.)

Mal shoves the weakling, hard, and she sprawls across the ground with a shriek of rage. Her rage turns to fear as she meets Mal’s eyes, and whatever her fae face looks like is apparently enough to concern even Carlos.

Her lieutenant sidles closer to her and says to Aria, “If you’re determined not to believe he’s okay, fine. I know it’s hard to get over the history. But this is not Auradon, and if you overstep and break our alliance with Harriet then you’re setting yourself up for a fight you can’t win.”

“With who?” Aria sputters, crawling to her feet with Janet’s help.

“Harriet. Uri’s a part of her gang, which means going after him is like going after Harriet herself,” Carlos explains patiently.

“And who is Harriet?” Janet asks, watching Aria from the corner of her eye like one would a wild animal.

“Hook’s daughter,” Mal snaps. “The one who almost beat me out of the Isle.” She strides away from the foolish girl, eyes on the cabinet that contains matches for the candelabras set up all around the entry hall. At least Aria looked shocked, looked like she understood something, but just in case, Mal added, “That’s what happens if the alliance breaks. The one who breaks it, faces the gang leader. So leave off Uri, unless you want to fight off Harriet.”

“Then what was that, about a threat? From that—who was that?” Chad interjects, his face flushed and flustered 

Carlos says, “Yes, that was a threat. Anthony was both threatening and warning us, because he doesn’t want the alliances to fail either. But he also knows he’s not the only one clinging to the past.” His pointed look at Aria is almost enough to make Mal smile.

“Anthony….?”

“Tremaine. And Asya Tremaine. Siblings,” Carlos says, continuing to talk over Chad’s pale-faced splutters. “Asya’s less likely to lash out, and Anthony’s usually the most in-control of the Tremaines. But.”

“Of all the gang leaders, Harriet’s the most objective here,” Mal says, finally clutching the matchsticks in her hand and closing the cabinet. “And I’m telling you now, besides not wanting to upset the alliances—you do not want to face her.” Aria, her head bowed toward Janet’s shoulder, seemed to have given up arguing about Uri—for the moment.

“She didn’t look so tough,” Phil scoffs, folding his well-muscles arms. “She lost the fight, after all.” Mal resists the urge to prove to the athlete that she could beat him, too.

Carlos answers for her. “You didn’t see a real fight.”

A number of them scoff or question the statement as Mal lights a match.

“No, that was blood in. Draw first blood without getting hurt by the other—defensive. Besides,” Carlos says. catching eyes with Mal across the room, an understanding passing between them. “Isle fighting…you’ve never fought like that before, even if you have trained.”

“It can’t be too different,” Lonnie suggests, breaking the tense silence. “I mean, my mom taught me warrior-style. In wars, you—well, you aim to kill.”

Mal turns at that, a snort already escaping her even before she takes in the uncomfortable look on the other girls’ faces in the dim light offered by the grimy windows of the hall. Lonnie turns toward her as Mal finishes lighting a candle.

The flickering light illuminates Lonnie’s confusion. “It’s true!”

“Oh, I believe you,” Mal says, as she took a taper and lit it. “Except. You didn’t have the barrier in Auradon.”

A brief silence falls as Mal started lighting more of the candles, and a few—Mervin, Quinn, and Felix—pick up tapers, too, helping to light the room. It takes nearly a minute of confused, uncertain Auradon faces looking between her and Carlos, clearly expecting an explanation, before someone speaks. But it isn’t either of them.

Ben, with a furrowed brow and crossed arms, and a look in his eyes that hurts, somehow, deep in Mal’s heart, says it. “The barrier stopped anyone from dying here. So that the villains would live out their punishment as designed. Except, when that comes to your…gangs, and fights, that none of you practiced how to hold back. You couldn’t die.”

Mal nods.

Carlos’ voice is soft as he asks, “How did you know?”

“…She mentioned it, in the great hall. When talking about Mal.”

She grits her teeth at the reminder of a spilled bit of personal information, the reminder that her mother’s wrath has not always ended before the world went dark. She doesn’t like that Ben knows this, much less that the others do, but in the candle-lit room she cannot hide. 

The only thing left for her is to change the conversation. “Rooms are upstairs. So are bathrooms, probably some extra clothes or material to make clothes. More candles, there’s no electricity. It’s safe enough to be alone in here—no one would have come in, no one will dare come in now that I’m back. Just stay on the first or second stories and stay out of the third.”

“Bathrooms? Oh, a bath!”

“How can you be sure it’s safe?”

“What’s on the third floor?”          

She ignores all the questions to pick up a small candelabra, debating how much to say. She can already see Audrey turning her nose up at the dust and the ugly second-hand carpets, can already tell that some of the cabinets are catching the tourney team’s attention for unidentified reasons. There are uncertain faces all around, and a chunk of those judgments are already turning toward the Fortress itself.

It’s only when Kristian asks, slowly, “Wait, what is this place, exactly?” that she realizes Carlos never told them the biggest thing.

She turns toward the gloomy staircase and says, “Third floor’s my room. Stay out.”

“Your room?” Kristian calls after her as she starts up the stairs. “Wait—is this your house?”

“That’s why no one would have come in,” she says as she climbs. “No one dared make Mother angry. Or me.”

Their babbling voices turn into noise as she leaves them behind.


	6. part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playlist songs for this chapter: "You Can Run" by Adam Jones and "Smoke Circles" by Akkord.
> 
> I'm pleased that my initial plans for this story do not appear out of character, now that the sequel to the first movie has come out. Additionally, I adore the new characters introduced and have expanded my original plot to include them as siblings to the characters I've already shaped and brought in from the novelizations. Their inclusion and indeed, the second movie, do not disrupt the plot already set in motion and in fact add exciting new layers to explore.
> 
> I also adore and appreciate you, fans, who are right here with me in the joy of seeing this story unfolds. Writing it is as much a treat for me as your reactions to it make the process exciting!
> 
> School's starting up again soon. I'm a teacher, so that demands my attention a lot. As previously established, my updates sometimes take a while to appear. Thank you for your enthusiastic patience!

 Jane sinks into a (stiff-backed) chair in a corner. The chair is on the landing of the second story. It seems the best option.

Every small detail washes through her.

Everyone else prepares. Some find and pass around (fraying) blankets (pulled from their cobwebbed place in the dented armoires). Others take turns in the (musty, dirt-encrusted) bathroom. (Similarly-named but worlds-different) Janet goes (up the next flight of stairs to the third floor).

Someone lights the fireplace (in the grimy, mostly-empty of food kitchen). There are leftover fish (from that Uri boy).

(Pathetic, useless) Jane sits.

Audrey dragged her every step there. Few others paid her any attention. She is silent.

Her classmates talk. Whispers about Mal (and her strange, scary attitude). Warnings not to think about parental enemies. They gossip while choosing one room for boys and one for girls. (The boys’ room has moth-eaten, violent tapestries on the walls. The girls’ room has half-empty, half-broken bookshelves).

Jane watches.

She sees Carlos (folding all of his secrets back into himself). She sees Quinn (ever kind, placing himself in front of the young de Vil’s corner). She sees Ben (quietly, secretively take the next flight of stairs to the third floor).

She ignores the extra information that strays into her thoughts.

(To describe is to make real. To make real is to—

To make real means that—

To—

Wand-holder. A barrier shattered at her hand.)

Jane does not deserve to be here (to be free). This does not stop her from existing in the (stiff-backed) chair in a corner.

Audrey appears. She reaches out and takes Jane’s hands. “Stand up,” she (quietly) says. “You’ll feel better when you’re clean.”

(This will not be true).

Jane stands. She walks to the (musty, dirt-encrusted) bathroom. She takes the (flaking sliver of) soap. She strips, washes, dries, re-dresses. This is done without help. She can make herself less of a burden.

When Audrey returns, she smiles (and it is strained, tired, worried). “There,” she says. “Just because we’re on the Isle, that doesn’t mean we have to look grimy.”

(Escapees. Prisoners-at-large. Refugees. Because there was a wand—

And she—)

Jane says nothing.

There is a (stiff-backed) chair in a corner. Audrey keeps a hand on her elbow and takes her down the hall.

Her female classmates are settling (their dusty, make-shift beds into the hardly safe, half-destroyed room). Audrey spreads out several (fraying) blankets. She pats them down and looks up at Jane (from where she kneels on the floor). “We’ll sleep in here tonight,” she says. “Are you okay with setting up beside me?” When there is no reply, (teary-eyed and gritting her teeth) Audrey stands up.

The girls file back out of the room. The boys eventually join them downstairs. (There are broken, stale crackers and dry, cooked fish). Audrey hands her food and she eats.

Jane has found another (rotten wood) chair.

(Guilty, stupid) Jane sits.

::

Mal’s knee aches. She landed on it wrong and twisted it further to retaliate against Harriet’s grudge-fueled punches. Mal always fought like this, no holding back. Restraint would get you dead on the Isle—and while dead, vulnerable to whatever your opponent wanted to do until you burst gasping back into life.

(Barrier’s gone: no more of that, ever again. A blessing, or a curse?)

Mal’s room is full of dust and unhappy (not unpleasant) memories. At least here, she could retreat. Her mo— _Maleficent_ was evil in all aspects, but she didn’t think to destroy this small territory after—

After.

She’s honestly surprised that half of the third story still exists. The evil fae’s rooms, on the other hand, make up the other half of the third floor, all broken stones piled in the hallway and a few new windows in the bargain. Seemed stable enough when she got up there, and none of it threatens to tumble into the stairwell, so Mal has her room and a bit of privacy.

(Gods damn it, there are Auradon hero-children in her house—what can she do about them?)

First order of business was that her stockpile of rags for each month went with her to Auradon. She makes new ones out an old shirt from her chest of a scant few clothing items. Then she looks through her trunk.

If she doesn’t want to put back on the same dirty clothes, all she has left is an old pair of skintight black pants with few purple details. She left them behind: even before seeing Auradon, she’d had a feeling that they were far too Isle for the kingdoms.

She was right. The princelings and princesses will be shocked. Mal almost cares.

(Will Ben look at her with disappointment or disgust—

Or with desire—

Not now.)

Regardless. The pants are all she’s got.

Soft footsteps in the hallway echo to her ears. Still, she feels achy and uncomfortable, so she doesn’t rush even though she’s half-undressed.

She’s holding up her two top options, to cover the chest band (the days-old underwire marks felt permanent), trying to decide which is less shocking—extremely low-cut but long, or high-cut but cropped over her bellybutton—when those faint footsteps pause at the door to her room.

Her door’s open for a reason. With half this floor destroyed, there was no point and if any of them really, seriously needed her, they had to be able to find her. Still, she squares her jaw and turns on her heel, tops in hand.

Pale blue eyes and brown ringlets peek around the doorway, and betray no flicker of either discomfort or disapproval at Mal’s state of undress. “Sorry to disturb you,” Janet says softly, “but I cannot avoid a query about a…delicate matter.”

Mal blinks slowly at her unwanted guest. “Yes?”

Janet seems to take that as a kind of welcome and steps fully into view around the doorway. “I’m afraid I’ve just fallen into a rather feminine situation, and am in need of some sort of padding or fabric.”

(How odd, to not be alone).

“You too?” Mal drops one top to grab from her newly-acquired stockpile. “You’ll have to rinse them out, but you can keep them.”

Janet blinks twice before accepting several shyly. Then, an understanding gleam in her eye, she says, “Just made the dungeons that much more awful, didn’t it?”

Mal snorts. (A morbid joke? From an Auradonian?)

Then she eyes Janet critically, more thoroughly than she ever had with most of the Auradon teens. She wasn’t as bad as the others. Mal had noticed this one didn’t cower or whine like the other princesses. Which villain’s rant did this one’s parents fall into?

As if sensing the question, Janet shrugged one shoulder. “My father grew up wild. He sees society rather differently than most people, and my mother doesn’t mind him deconstructing it all. She’s a tad blunter than most noble ladies would be, though mostly only in the house. Well. Treehouse.”

“Ah. Tarzan,” Mal recognizes with a snap of her fingers and makes a mental note. If Clay were around, he would have been a real problem.

“Right. Well, thank you, and…” Janet’s turning on her heel before she pauses, and Mal can hear the undercurrents of curiosity. She tosses on the low-cut shirt for the lack of anything better to do. This seems to be enough for Janet to haul her thoughts together. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.” At the girl’s fleeting smile, Mal feels the edges of her defenses crumbling. She might be tired, but if she’s right, Janet’s questions are everyone’s questions. “Fine. What did you all want to know?”

Janet’s smile returns. “I wasn’t sent, if that’s what you mean. Just, I think you aren’t one for an audience, either, and every time people ask you feel put on the spot again. So perhaps if just one of us asks now, she—I—can take the brunt of all that fear everyone’s carrying.”

This…is unexpected. But not entirely unwelcome.

(Maybe she’s another potential ally.)

Mal bristles slightly, even as she admires Janet’s insight. But she does nod.

Janet starts simple. “Who were all the gang leaders? And who else should we be wary of meeting?”

Succinct, clear, and purposeful. Yes, Mal likes this girl.

“The alliance gang leaders are Anthony Tremaine, Harriet Hook, Freddie Facilier, and Gaelle Gaston. While they might hold off because they don’t want the alliance to fall, Harriet and Gaelle have siblings who might not hesitate to carry on their parent’s vendetta. I can’t be sure of who else is still around, not until after a Council is held. We all need to be careful.”

“Council?”

Mal shrugs. “We have to meet. No avoiding it. That’s why I told them to leave us alone the rest of the day. Everyone’s exhausted from walking half the Isle to get here. So they’ll probably come tonight.”

Janet nods. “You can’t be sure, but you know your…people best. You knew Uri was an ally. Who else might be one? And who do you think might be the most trouble?”

Mal chafes at the implied responsibility. Still, she considers the question. “Things have changed. I’m not sure who will be trouble right now. But Gaelle will be an ally.”

Blinking, hand vaguely drifting towards the side of her own face in memory, she says, “But—her father’s Gaston, wouldn’t she hold a grudge against Ben—”

Mal’s already shaking her head. “She’d never side with her father, and Gaston took the twins with him to Auradon. So she’s with us for that alone. But, her younger brother Gil and his splinter gang might still be around, and they’ll probably not be our allies.”

“Wait, what’s a splinter gang?” Janet shook her head. “I thought all the gangs were in this alliance.”

“Nope. There are splinters and ragtag groups all over, but they’re not strong enough to go against us. Everyone pretty much falls in line when we say because they know they’d lose if they challenged us.” A chill runs down her spine at the thought, recalling vividly how cruel she’d always been to Uma, how the two of them nearly started gang wars in their animosity. “Actually, I might have to prove myself stronger than them, too, like how I did with Harriet.” At Janet’s expression, she quickly added, “Chill, we don’t have to worry about an attack until dark.”

“That’s not especially comforting.”

“I can handle anything Uma throws down,” Mal set her shoulders back confidently. “That’s Uri’s younger sister. Between her, Gil, and Harriet’s younger brother Harry, the three of them are the biggest wildcard here. If they fall in line, I can’t see any other splinters actually making trouble.”

Janet’s quick to absorb and move on. “Any other potential allies or threats?”

“Anthony’s a possible ally. He and Asya will at least cooperate for a while, and their cousins Dizzy, Drew, and Danny are still really young.” Come to think of it, Dizzy, like Gil, had always dangerously toed the line of being too sweet—Dizzy, in her youth, and Gil, because he was a bit different in the head. “And Freddie…with those new powers, I’m not sure.”

A magical link to the dead might have changed her old ally—and for that matter, magic itself seemed to exist on the Isle differently than it did on Auradon. Mal could feel it in the air, more turbulent and unpredictable than what she felt on after passing through the barrier that first time. She couldn’t access it—she’d tried, surreptitiously in that cave the previous night, with that remembered hair spell from her book. What she can feel is a certain wildness in the air, like the magic was a living beast chained by the barrier and suddenly, overwhelmed, free to run amok.

The left-behind of the Isle put on quite a show earlier—but was their behavior in the streets an act to frighten the newcomers, or a reflection of their sanity?

Mal couldn’t tell. (It’s frightening, not to know.)

“So,” Janet says, arms folded, “what about the rest of the villains who were in our parents’ stories? Did any of them have children?”

“You shouldn’t see Clay here. His father, Clayton, brought him to Auradon.”

The brunette’s eyes glisten. “And the rest of our classmates?”

Roll call. Matching Auradon faces to parent names to villains, she slowly recites, “Shun Yu… Ginny Gothel…Hans the Second, of the Southern Isles...Cora, daughter of the Queen of Hearts. Claudine Frollo may be an ally. Diego de Vil, too.”

“Diego?” Janet blinks as footsteps faintly echo in the hallway behind her. “Carlos has a brother?”

“Cousin,” Mal corrects. “Might be an ally, might be dangerous.”

“We’ll have to keep an eye out for him,” says a new voice.

Her stomach turns over. (Nerves or fleeting happiness?)

Janet smiles at Ben, moving aside to let him linger in the doorway. She backs into the hall, questions apparently answered enough to bow out at the former king’s presence. Mal raises an eyebrow when the girl says, “I’ll let the others know.”

Then she’s left facing her…someone. Whatever he is to her, now, when they haven’t really talked since before the coronation.

He still means a lot to her. (That’s not deniable.)

Ben leans against the doorframe, one shoulder to the wood, in a casual pose that doesn’t quite fit him. She looks closer, at the tired lines around his lips and the dark shadows under his eyes. No, the lean makes perfect sense.

She does not linger in her watching. Whatever he has to say, he’ll say—in the short time they’ve known each other, been together, she’s learned this about him. So she goes back to moving around the dusty parts of her room, busily shuffling the left-behind detritus of her old life. Her fingers turn to pulling at schoolwork, scattered across a battered table against the wall, by the time he says, “You did well, getting us here. You’re a natural leader. It’s easy to see why the others respect you so much.”

“I’m no one’s leader,” she says, eyes intent on the old papers. Homework: the five-step evil plan, a manipulation manifesto. Does Ben have half a clue about what’s in front of her? What’s in her past?

(Does he still want—

Does she—

 _Can_ she, even though—)

“Yet they follow you. Not just Carlos, Jay, and Evie. The people we just met might have made you prove your place, but once you had it, they listened when you said to back off.”

She snorts. “They’re just scrambling without Maleficent or their parents throwing around their weight. I’m not done proving myself to them.”

“And neither are we, right?” Her eyes dart to his, and those brown eyes are so very knowing. “They haven’t even tested any of us yet. They won’t respect us unless we show that we can stand up to them. Or stand with them.” He’s right.

He’s also just revealed his hand. It’s an easy step away from simply earning their respect to survive, to needing it for something more. She sighs, lets the old evilness manifesto fall back on the table, and eyes him unhappily. “You haven’t let go of it yet.”

Ben raises one eyebrow.

“You want to go be a big damn hero.” She’d thought that they were rational enough to drop the idea of saving anyone but themselves, and here’s the boy-king thinking that their alliances might be a key to winning his land back.

Her hands move sharply over the papers on the desk, stacking them to use as kindling for a fire. His boots scrape against the floor as he moves closer, behind her, as he says, “It’s not about wanting to be a hero. We need to fight back. None of us can leave our kingdoms, or our parents and people, behind like that, Mal.”

“I’m not asking you to—”

“Then what are you asking?” he says, tone just a little sharper than she’s ever heard it. The sense that he’s irritated with her is what does it. (How dare he, when he’s the one being irrational?)

She whirls on her heel, snapping, “We have _nothing_! Don’t you get that? You’re just like us now, nothing but the clothes on your back and the people around you, and you’re only as strong as you make yourself. Surviving is the priority here, not going back to Auradon and dying!”

His jaw is rigid and sharp as he forces calm control over his words. “That’s not what any of us want to do. But we can’t be on the run for the rest of our lives. If we had a plan—”

Interrupting him is almost delightful. “Your plan should be finding food and supplies—”

“If we also had the numbers, which with these alliances you’ve made, we could—”

“And what they care about is food and not burning to death—”

“And they have nothing to lose, either, so why not fight for a shot at being off this Island? If they do, then together, we could fight, could win—”

It’s gone from needling to curiosity: he is struggling to hold in the full force of a rising anger—an anger she’s sure is more their situation than her, more about him being tired and hungry and sore from sleeping on the ground. From the rigidity of his jaw to the lines around his eyes, he’s so close to snapping.

(He needs to snap—he’s trying too hard to be in control. To hold it together for everyone else.

And she can see that fragile wavering dream in her mind, like he’s painted it in broad strokes of primary colors—and it seems cruel for him to make her see it.)

She pushes at him. “We are not strong enough! Our parents are stronger, just like always, and they’re worse than ever—”

“I’m not blind, I saw that—”

“You _saw_ nothing—”

“ _I saw you!”_ he roars. His eyes are alight with fury, the muscles in his cheeks bulge just enough to distort his features. He’s less than an arm’s reach away, shoulders curving, almost hunched, bestial, and Mal braces herself in the wake of that roar. “I watched her torture you. Have you dragged, bloody and half-starved, through the dungeons. Heard the way she spoke about you, to you.” The rage is latched on to those words, to that experience. To that pain. “What she said. I saw you take it, like it was normal! And then—my parents, my friends. My people. _Me_. Like _this_.” With that, his hazy eyes turn to his own hands and he staggers back, turning, shuddering shoulders hiding his face.

She says nothing. She doesn’t feel fear, not really, because he yelled and nothing more. Because he backed off when he realized he was losing it. Because this is a rage that comes from her pain—and from his.

(Is this love, too? To hurt when someone you care about hurts?)

For an instant, there’s no sound but her steady heartbeat and his breathing being forced back into a regular pattern. His shoulders shifting back into a normal posture. And, at last, his eyes flicker over his shoulder, embarrassment and fear and lingering anger in the lines around his eyes. But he says, “I know that’s only a tiny glimpse of what you’ve survived all these years, but damn it Mal, you _survived_. You not only made it through but you’ve chosen to be better than her! You’re stronger than she knows, than even you know, and that’s why yes, we’re going to go be big damn heroes. And that includes you.”

It’s ridiculous that the words touch her heart so deeply.

She comes closer and ignores the faint shiver racing down his spine as she places her hand on his back. The embarrassment is fading, but now it seems like he’s afraid of her. “You okay?” she asks.

He snorts. “I should be asking you that.” Apologies linger in his eyes, on the way he presses into her hand.

Mal snorts. “That was a little puppy snarl.” Only then does she address what he claimed. “Ben. She won that fight.”

“No, she didn’t. You were fighting alone. If we’re in it together, if we can get these gangs to ally with us—”

She laughs, bitter and tired (and hopeful). “That’s a long shot.”

“But it’s not impossible,” he counters. “We have a common enemy right now, and besides what I could offer in the future, I’m not so proud. I think a bit of revenge might motivate them.”

Her eyes flicker in surprise. “You’re a prince.”

“I’m a person.” He tilts his head, turning to face her more fully, a wry grin twisting his lips. “A bit of a beast, sometimes.”

She’d like to return his smile, but tension draws all the lines of her face tight. Her hand pats his arm and that seems to be enough of a response.

“Just think about it. For one minute, let’s imagine it’s possible,” he says.

“Imagine?”  To force, again, that cruel technicolor vision into her mind?

“Come on. Think about it. Let’s say we get more allies by offering a truce in the future, which comes with a chance to stay off the Isle for good, and all we have to do is fight a common enemy. They’d go for it, wouldn’t they?”

And that is truth.

From what she knows of her Isle peers, those two promises just might be a big enough draw to their cooperation to smooth over a number of potential conflicts between her new gang of Auradon royalty and the Isle inhabitants.

Doesn’t mean she’s done second-guessing his grand ideas. “Maybe. Especially if that promise to let them leave the Isle isn’t empty and they know it.”

“That was my plan all along, remember?” And yes, she remembers the proclamation, the one Evie read word for word from the official documents of the kingdom, just so they would know exactly what the deal was to have the four of them in Auradon. There was the implication that it was just the start of bringing those like her off the Isle, and Mal remembers that the very idea sat uncomfortably in her heart.

(She wanted it to be real too much.)

“So assuming that the gangs all believe you, there’s still the matter of actual fighting,” she says, jolting her mind back to the problems with this plan.

“Let’s say even us prissy princes know a handful of things about swords, and that if we plan it right, smarts can trump manpower.”

“So the smarts are our contribution, and Auradon’s is…?”

Ben rolls his eyes, trying to hide the giddy laugh that bubbles up in his throat. “More manpower, inside knowledge of the territory, ways into the castle and the lands that you don’t know, where potential civilian allies might be hiding out or have left supplies…”

It’s a decent list of advantages. She can feel herself bending to his brightly-shining potential, less cruel than it seemed, and to the pure force of his willpower and…sheer _goodness_. She’d wondered, back in Auradon, if the force of his personality was a magic all its own.

He’ll have the rest of them seeing this dream, too.

She’d known nothing but survival all her life. If she hadn’t gone to Auradon, she would still be thinking only about how to survive the Isle, how to keep the alliances in sync and strong. This is a strategic mind that she cannot imitate or pretend to understand.

(Was this what made Auradon shine so bright? This insanity called hope?)

Her arms fold, considering, thinking aloud, “You could lead us just fine, if I get them to agree.”

To her surprise, he shakes his head. “I can’t lead them, only be their ally. I don’t have their respect the way you do, Mal.”

(He can’t be serious.)

“Ben. I—on the Isle, all I did here was keep them all in line. But the lines are gone, because everything is different here.” She shakes her head, looking toward the window where she knows that she would see the broken, burnt rubble outside. “Maybe if I still had my magic—but she took it.” The words burn in her throat. “She took my magic from me.”

Despite having been cut off from most of her fae nature all her life, the loss burns. Itches. Innate parts of her nature, like the hair and glowing eyes, still manifested on the Isle because the barrier could only remove so much. But what used to be a faint ache that was normal throughout her childhood, disappeared altogether in Auradon. Being cut off again from her own magic simmers beneath her skin.

(It’s not physical pain but it’s close enough.)

The air in the room shifts as Ben, somehow far more understanding than she anticipated, says, “I know this wasn’t a homecoming you envisioned. I’m so sorry for that.” Her eyes flicker, and his are full of genuine sympathy. “But you are strong, even without your magic. And if that’s what you need to feel like yourself again, then we’ll get it back.”

(Insanity called hope.)

“How did you know?” she whispers.

“Just guessing, but Uri’s the one who made me think of it. You’re part fae, which means your magic was inside you, not something extra.” His jaw muscles flex. “She did something far worse than physically attacking you.”

(That’s—

Not—)

“I didn’t think of it as worse,” she murmurs. Her eyes fall to her own hands, where they lie on the desk. Trying for lightness, ignoring the edge of something unknown in his tone, she says, “Okay, your highness, generator of all plans and ideas—what’re we going to do about my magic, then?” Because he’ll have an idea.

“The wand.” He makes it sound so simple. “She doesn’t have it, and it didn’t fight you when it was in your hands. Not like it fought Jane.”

She rolls her eyes, unseen, fingers crumpling the old papers into a less haphazard stack. “Yeah, sure, great idea! Except—we have no idea where it is.”

He’s closer when he says, “It’s somewhere. We just have to figure out where.”

“Okay, I’m done imagining this scenario.”

“Just hear me out.” His proximity is neither comfortable nor overwhelming. His hands steady hers and she lets him pause their paper shuffling, lets him speak to her with those words that make her see possibilities that shouldn’t exist. “Mal. We can’t be in survival mode forever. Sooner or later, we have to make a choice, have to say we deserve better and will fight to get it. I know you all might not have felt like you had much of a chance on the Isle, but from what I hear? You made structure out of chaos, made alliances that stuck even with you gone, and from what I saw, solid friendships whether you admit to it or not. I have a feeling that even if I hadn’t had a conscience, you’d have turned the Isle upside-down into something new.”

(Damn. It wasn’t her alone, but—damn, it sounds so _good_.)

“You must regret having taken that chance on us,” she says faintly.

“What? Of course not.” He sounds genuinely surprised.

She finally looks at those furrowed eyebrows, that down-turned mouth, and says it at last. “But our parents escaped. We—” (No. What if he--- Not yet.) “Auradon is taken over. By the villains.” She breathes through the pain she sees flicker across the lines around his lips. “And your parents. All of your parents. I—we couldn’t help them.”

“No. We couldn’t,” he whispers.

A memory flickers, of Goodness 101 and the concept of empathy. The words float from her mouth in sincerity and following the formula exactly. “I’m so sorry we had to leave them behind.”

Ben’s eyes flicker across her face, just long enough to widen with an odd expression, just like one that he kept giving her after the enchanted lake. (Now, she wonders—is that also what love can look like?) “They’ll be okay,” he says once satisfied, a faint smile erasing a few tired lines around his eyes. “I have to believe that, because if I don’t then there’s fewer reasons to fight back. And that, I won’t accept.”

Somehow, she feels better for hearing it.

Mal asks, without wanting to know the answer, “What is it that makes damned heroes want to face impossible odds?”

“What is it about reformed villains that makes them so ruthlessly practical?” Ben counters.

“Just experience.” She shrugs. He releases her hands when she tugs them, uncovering the titles on the papers she had half-crumpled into kindling. “We learned how to fight here. How to make a five-step evil plan and describe our manipulative tactics,” she says, showing him the title of her paper.

For only a moment, his raised eyebrow questions. She feels fragile, exposed.

Instead of saying anything she expected, he instead meets her eyes again to tease, “Did you put those tactics to much use?”

She tries to smirk. “No, the practical experience didn’t turn out like I expected. It would have been a failing grade.”

She doesn’t succeed. His eyes are all too perceptive as he asks, “Why didn’t it work?”

(Too close. Too much. Just wait—

No. Now.

If not now, when?)

She admits to a fraction of it, roundabout. “Because I jumped in front of a spell instead of deflecting it into the captives. I made an irrational choice and everyone’s paid for it.”

Ben waits for a moment, patient, not drawing back from her. She breathes. (This is okay.)

“So, you admit that you could have defeated her?”

(Wait. That’s—he’s not supposed to— What?)

Shocked, she leans back. “What?”

He’s almost smiling, the idiot, when he clarifies, “You could have defeated her, when you had your magic?”

(Nope. Not okay.) Her chest feels too tight. “Way to rub it in.”

The idiot smile dims a fraction. “No, Mal, I mean—when you get your magic back, which we will do, you already know you can beat her. You almost had her then.”

(That’s---

No.)

Mal snorts. “Didn’t she prove her point, then? That caring was my weakness?”

A spark lights in his eyes. “Is that what this has been about?” he asks. His shoulders seem to relax as an unseen pressure lifts, as his body turns fully toward her.

She skitters back a step, wary. “This?”

“I’m not blind, remember? You’ve been distant. Hesitant,” he accuses. It doesn’t sound much like one, but carries with it the undeniable fact that she’s been drawing back on purpose. “Love is not your weakness. It’s going to be your greatest strength.”

Her stomach seems to flip over on itself at the sound. She laughs and it comes out like a single thread, weak and thin. “That makes no sense.”

He reaches toward her, then, palms hovering over her elbows, and she freezes her body. (Wants him closer without asking for it.) He leans closer, intent, and says, “You know why? Because she still hasn’t won.” Her lips part in protest, which he ignores with a quick share of his head. “No, she hasn’t. Are you dead? Are we captured right now?” It jolts her, the way he seems to firm and unyielding. (The way in which…he’s right.) “It wasn’t in her plans for us to escape, for Carlos and Jay and Evie to be on your side, for us to find a hiding place on the Isle. To potentially have new allies very soon, ones who have just as much fury towards her and the rest of the villains as we do. For you to unite all of us. That’s what makes _you_ stronger: if you could have beat her then, and it was only her cheating that let her win that time, then the balance is in your favor the next time we go up against her.”

“As long as she doesn’t use the living statue spell again,” comes the sarcastic retort, devoid of real strength. 

Because, damn him, he’s _right_.

Maleficent wanted them all in dungeons, frail and defeated and bowing to her evil whims. But…she didn’t have that. She didn’t have them: they escaped. If Ben’s half-sane plans could work…maybe they have a chance. She’s no leader but maybe she doesn’t have to be anything but swept up in the tide of their strength.

Ben’s palms come to rest on her arms and she welcomes the contact, unfolding her arms, letting her hand rest on his shoulder. Then he adds, “I don’t think she’ll be able to use that spell on us. I think the staff isn’t responding to her correctly anymore. Or at least, not as strongly as it was before you challenged her for it.”

This is future-altering news. She jerks, stares, demands, “What? Why?”

“Just a thought I had, when watching her use it again. She had some of us…” A shadow passes over his face, the potential for twitching muscles and bestial roars.

The marks left by their brief imprisonment are raw. She rubs one thumb on his arm to distract him. “I was in a separate dungeon most of the time. What did she do to the rest of you?” A rumble of anger swells in her, one that she forces out of her own voice.

A swallow and a deep breath later, Ben’s eyes refocus on her. “We were frozen in the hall for a while, probably while she was back here doing…what she did, to the Isle. But when she started releasing the statues, she just had this expression… she was angry, more than I thought she should have been for having just gotten everything she wanted. She was trying to hide it, and I don’t know if it was even about the staff or about you or about something else, but. I mean, I don’t know much about magical artifacts. Jane might know more.”

If her brief challenge had destabilized Maleficent’s magical control…

This news spurs her as much as Ben’s supportive speeches. She murmurs, “I’ll ask Jane later.”

“So. That’s settled, right?” he asks, almost cheerful.

“Which part?”

The cheerful tone doesn’t match the words or his eyes as he asks, “Are you going to keep trying to break up with me?”

Mal blinks. Her hands spasm, clutching at him. “Break up? I wasn’t—” Suddenly, the need for space was not as important as needing to reassure his fragile veneer of cheer. She steps closer into his arms. “I wasn’t really thinking it like that. Just…getting space.”

(Just needing to—

Wanting to—

No…right?)

His hands settle on her waist, but gingerly. “Do you still need space?”

Well, at least he’s aware of the difficulties. “Not in the same way. But I told you before, I don’t… Well. You met my…Maleficent. I can’t make promises about feelings. And is now really the best time to even be in a relationship?” she asks.

( _“I don’t know what love feels like.”_ She just might have an idea, now.

But there’s still—)

“Well, I don’t know, I mean, we are escaped prisoners on the run for our lives, trying to start a rebellion to take back the kingdoms—”

Idiot. “Ben.” Her expression remains serious.

The boy-king looks down at her, one hand rising to gently twist loose, wild hair away from her face. “What other time is there?” he asks. “Maybe we win, maybe we lose. Either way, I know that I still want to be with you and no amount of chaos around us is going to change that feeling.”

And while her concerns stand… “It’s less scary to hear you say that now.”

“Without the spell?”

(And—

Why not? Why still? Can’t she—)

She has to snort, no matter how serious she feels, and the lightness in his eyes makes that humor feel more natural. “Well, yes.” ( _Now_.) “And…without what Maleficent wanted hanging over every moment of it.” And even that isn’t explaining anything, doesn’t erase the faint frown on his forehead, and suddenly she’s tired of it.

(Just— _say it_.)

The secret bulging against her tongue aren’t worth keeping anymore. Standing in her old fortress room, it feels fitting to finally share the last fragments to his ears alone. “She told us to get her the wand when we left. We were supposed to help them break out of the Isle. I was supposed to be her wicked little girl and take over the world at her side. So, your assumption, it was so nice and maybe truer than I wanted to admit at the time…but the love spell was also part of doing what she wanted.”

(There it is.)

The words that she feared cause no more than a blink. “And you didn’t want to.”

“Uh-huh. And, what part of me casting a love spell on you and grabbing the wand from Jane tells you that?” she asks, bewildered.

“The part where you tried to take the spell off me. The part where you told Maleficent ‘no’ when she asked for it.” His eyes are gentle and even the grimy stones of the fortress can’t suck out their glow. “The part where you took a very painful curse meant for me. You made your choice, Mal. That’s one of many reasons I love you.”

(Oh.)

She wants to say it in return. She wants to believe it’s the name of that squishy softness in her heart. She wants to, but she’s also trying to be honest because that’s what people do in Auradon. And she wants to belong with him, there. “I still don’t know what that really means.”

“You’re starting to learn,” he claims. “Maybe it’s my ego talking, but I’d like to think it was part of the choice to defy your mom.”

(So do I). Maybe it’s that hope: maybe that’s enough. “Yeah…it might.” His smile is so bright that she snorts. “Don’t let your ego inflate too much.”

“You’ll provide the pins to pop it with, I’m sure.”

::

“And just where is your illustrious leader?” Anthony drawls, as gracefully still as a statue but unfortunately, nowhere near as silent.

Rising to the jibe, just like he has been since Anthony arrived, Chad snaps, “Make one more snide comment—”

“Is that permission?”

Carlos bodily plants himself between the two, thoughts of barking, territorial dogs lingering in the back of his mind as he does it. “The next one of you to speak is getting kicked from the Council and electrocuted on their way out the door. And I don’t particularly care how many burns you stumble away with,” he cuts in, fully drowning his words in his own particular Isle tone of apathy and insanity. He backs them up with a lazy spark from a modified taser-type device pulled from one of his pockets.

Dual-win: Chad’s left gaping in surprise, and Anthony already knows it’s not an idle threat. The two back off, Anthony meandering towards his seat at the table and Chad slinking back toward the entrance.

Carlos flips the taser in one hand for show, letting its sharp angles catch the light, before slipping it away quickly enough that no one can catch where it rests on his body.

From her lazy lean in one of the chairs, Harriet snickers. “That’s a new toy. Is it Auradon-made all special and shit?”

“No. It’s one of mine,” he replies, turning on his stage and casting her a challenging look. Or rather, a blank stare that says anyone fool enough to challenge him would regret it. Just like walking down the hall of the Isle high school. It feels familiar, like a comfortable friend.

She tilts her head back, unconcerned. He’s tracking the fact that his display of dubious sanity is of no concern to her, is exactly what it took to get Anthony to back off, is earning him Gaelle’s frank and analytic gaze.

He’s also tracking just how far he can balance between Isle-strong and Auradon-unsettling. The majority of Auradon teens linger in the drawing room, where the gang leaders have shown up and gathered by habit. They edge around the doorway, line part of a wall, and occasionally dart out of the room.

Not one of them looks anything less than disturbed at his prior threat.

Carlos could care about that, but sliding back into his Isle shell has been far easier than he anticipated. He’ll have to be careful of it, if the Auradonians push too much, not knowing where all the lines lie here.

Anthony takes his seat as Freddie twirls a skull on the tip of her finger and says to its empty sockets, “Where are they?”

Carlos glances at the door just long enough to catch Lonnie’s eyes as she steps back into the room. She answers the question when he just keeps staring. “On their way. Mal was just…needed a moment.”

His jaw clenches. To an Auradon teen, that was probably meant to be kind. To his ears, to the Isle alliance, it implies illness, injury. Weakness. He repositions himself in line from the door and, low rumble implying threat, says, “She’ll take as much damn time as she wants.”

Gaelle smirks. Her hands fly, various symbols shaping in each twisting finger. A cobbled-together language from one old book on how those without words could communicate, and phrases she needed to say on the Isle. When all else fails, she has scraps of paper to make her point.

None is needed right now. An obscene gesture speaks for itself.

His response: “Says the whore.”

She tosses her head back in guttural, choked laughter, even as Anthony’s folded arms tense and his gaze becomes icy. (He thinks he’s so subtle. He’s not.)

“Must we start with the insults before negotiations?” Mal’s voice echoes strong and loud into the room, demanding attention. “There’s a system for a reason.”

“So it can be flogged to within an inch of its life?” Harriet says, her eyes gleaming wickedly.

“You’re thinking about the minions,” Mal retorts, striding to the head of the table. “Which is not what they are,” she adds, gesturing to the gawking Auradonians. 

Carlos eyes that wicked ensemble. She’s been upstairs the whole afternoon, with Ben on and off—he came downstairs for some food, told the rest that Mal’s just pulling herself together, and disappeared back upstairs. The admission had set Carlos on edge, though it didn’t seem to make their royal companions mutinous or terrified.

(He stepped away from his observant perch to change, too. The hole where Mal long ago stocked extras for him, just in case it was a bad night for his mom, still had a few things left behind. The change helped bring back his Isle persona, too. More pockets and old, hidden weapons.)

Freddie lets her skull disappear into a shadow and whistles loudly, appreciatively. “Damn, Mal. Where you been hiding that body?”

Carlos snorts as he starts making his way to stand at her side.

“Shut up,” is the reply. She sits in the hazardously large chair, lounging with a careless ease. He’s standing just to the right of the chair when she declares, “Vote. They’re staying.”

“Sure, doll,” Freddie laughs. “I’m in.” A clinking coin rolls down the table toward Mal. 

“What?” Harriet snaps, bolting upright. “Just like that? It’s blood in!”

“Blood was paid.” Mal’s eyes glitter green.

Harriet’s lips curl into a disturbing grin. “Not by them.”

Another coin clinks onto the table, and Harriet turns her glare to Anthony. He sniffs and refolds his arms. “Do stop whining,” he tells her. “You’re making a display of it, without thinking of the consequences.”

“Say it again, you old—”

“Just like always.”

With that, the sword is drawn and Harriet’s leaping across the table. Anthony barely hesitates, knocking his chair aside and dodging a downward slash, seizing her wrist, and twisting her entire body so that she turns in midair and lands hard on the table. The sword clatters to the floor. She screams in outrage.

Anthony looks down at her in disdain. “Predictable,” he sighs. “Harry would be far better at this.”

Harriet’s legs fly up over her head, plowing directly into his chest. He stumbles back and she rights herself on the table, preparing to seize back the sword—

Carlos’ taser sends out sparks that land on her upraised hand. She howls as the skin blisters, rocking back, and he triggers the device again. A shower of fiery specks almost land on her face before she catches herself on the edge of the table.

Caught in her anger, she hadn’t noticed him moving, hadn’t prepared for his interference. Even now, her eyes dart away from his blank expression, searching for a way to her target. But she doesn’t lunge, cradling her blistered hand to her chest. She watches Carlos with more wariness than she looks at Anthony with bloodthirsty longing.

That’s the power Mal’s gang always held. No one messed with them before, and they have every intention of following through again if they must.

Whatever it takes to survive. Whatever it takes to bring back Evie and Jay, to set them all free.

Still at ease in her chair, Mal drawls, “Keep this up, prove him right, and you’ll be out.”

“C’mon sugar,” Freddie drawls, the tension in her arms belying her casual tone. “Don’t stand on pride, now. Like it or not, you know this formality has to get done.”

Harriet and Freddie lock eyes for a long moment, before Harriet reaches with her unwounded hand into her jacket pocket. A coin rolls to join the others and Carlos returns his taser into his pocket.

Slowly, she takes back her sword, keeping a wary eye on Carlos the entire time. He maintains the blank face, keeping his movements unhurried as he returns to Mal’s side. Anthony returns to the table without a single hair out of place.

Trying to pretend that he doesn’t hear the silence, Carlos’ eyes dart toward the door long enough to reassure himself that the teens they’re responsible for haven’t gotten themselves into trouble. That he avoids their eyes is simply because he can’t be bothered.

(Yeah, right.)

With a piercing look over the lingering Auradon kids at the door, lingering on a few faces, Gaelle holds them waiting for a long moment. Then she tosses her own coin in, sealing the decision.

Mal glances over the coins and says, “Ben.” When the king steps away from the huddled Auradon mass, moving as if to come closer to her, she gestures to the far end of the table. He adjusts smoothly and stands across from her. She continues when he’s there. “Majority vote rules. Welcome to the alliance. Your gang is your own to lead, as long as you follow the codes. Do you agree?”

Without hesitation, he replies, “I swear allegiance and will honor the agreements we come to at this table.”

Anthony’s eyebrow raises a fraction. Harriet eyes him with curiosity. Freddie smirks. Gaelle gestures to Mal, moves her hands quickly into a variety of symbols, and receives a nod in return.

Then Mal says, “You have a proposal for us.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then we’ll hold Council.” She looks up at Carlos and adds, “Leaders only.”

He simply nods, stomach churning uneasily despite trusting both Mal and Ben to know what they were doing. Whatever they’d spent time talking about earlier that afternoon was clearly about to be put into action, but now his role is to face head-on the rest of Auradon’s runaways without backup.

Damn, she’d better pay him back for this one. Good thing he’d spent most of the afternoon on his own, so he isn’t overloaded with their bickering, worrying, or questions.

He walks to the closest one, Seth, whose wide eyes become almost buggy when Carlos sharply gestures for him to leave the room. “You’re not the leaders, time to go,” he says, gruffly, already anticipating their responses.

Sure enough, previously-silent mass begins to protest immediately. 

Feeling the eyes on his back, caught between these two groups, he wearily pulls out the taser once more. “Now.”

A couple sparks send them shuffling, wide eyes afraid and worried. Once they’re out, he closes the doors so that he sneaks a last glimpse of the faces at the table. Not one of the Isle teens seems at all fazed by his actions, though Ben’s worry is only barely hidden.

The Council might not go well. Whatever goal Mal and Ben have, he hopes Ben pulls himself together.

When he turns to look at the Auradon teens, all watching him like he’s a rabid dog, he realizes that Ben’s not the only one that needs to overcome his initial responses to Isle normalcy. Lucky for him, he’s noticed that they seem to trust vulnerability. While it disturbed him for Ben to imply Mal was not doing great earlier, he did remember their reactions vividly.

This is why he drops the Isle mask, forcing himself to shed the protective layers that make him a formidable opponent. His shoulders slump, his mouth turns down, and he shuffles his feet just a little as he moves toward the kitchen. “Come on,” he says, softer, letting the bone-deep tired he feels seep into his tone. “We can’t stay here. They won’t like it.”

Most of them hesitate, but Quinn steps right up next him. Felix falls in line behind him, mostly-quiet footsteps still not soft enough. The rest trickle after them, and he lets his eyes tip sideways to catch Quinn seemingly struggling to mouth out what he wants to say.

The topic’s obvious. Carlos forges ahead. “If we didn’t make ourselves look stronger, scarier, and tougher than our own parents, then they won’t listen. That’s the only way we could hold the line, before—why else would anyone listen to us when we’d tell them to back off each other’s territories? To stop fighting and killing each other? To stop hoarding food from the barges and make sure no one was starving?”

Quinn says, “I suppose. Though it seems like that authority is constantly challenged.”

“Of course. That’s life. At least, that’s life here. But…you think there’s a better way?” Carlos recalls Goodness 101 again. “An Auradon way?”

“Well, we’ve managed to keep people from hurting each other without needing to…become—”

“Villains?” Carlos snorts. “Auradon left us here to be raised by villains. What did you think would happen?”

To that, no one seems to want to reply.

They make it to the kitchen before Felix, voice soft as he sits in one of the few chairs, says, “I don’t think that was villainous. Looked like survival to me.”

“Not villainous?” Chad edges around the side of the room, eyeing Carlos in fear as he accuses, “You hurt her, without hesitation.”

Jaw clenching, Carlos faces off against what he _knew_ would be thrown his way. “She doesn’t stop without a little pain.” And, when Chad opens his mouth, cuts his hand across the air in a sharp gesture. “None of us really do. We couldn’t die, remember?” He shakes his head. “Besides, she’s one of Hook’s. She doesn’t know how to stop.”

“What does that mean?” Chad snaps.

Carlos just eyes him. “You know Hook’s story.” Chad nods impatiently. “You know what he’s done.” The pirate had thought nothing of fighting, of hurting, Peter Pan and his Lost Boys. Children. And that was before the Isle made him even madder.

“So?”

It’s the idiocy that makes him irritated enough to snap, “What makes you think he’d be any different towards his own kids? That any of our parents were changed into loving people, by having us around? You locked up _villains_ here, not happy-go-lucky thieves—” His eyes dart towards Felix. “—or mistreated maids.” Chad’s face goes red. “Our parents were _evil_. And having us around only meant that they had someone new to hurt, just like they hurt all of your parents.”

Lonnie’s red-rimmed eyes appear between him and the sputtering prince he lashed out at, and he realizes too quickly that she’s looking at him with too much intent. “I get it, Carlos. That wasn’t you actually being evil,” she says, hands almost reaching out, palms open. “That was acting. Pretending to be your mom.”

(Way too close.)

Her eyes widen, afraid, and he realizes a second later that his Isle persona’s just gone up in a flash, protective armor as the fact is laid bare at his feet. “No,” he says, voice detached. “If I was pretending to be Cruella, Harriet wouldn’t have a few blisters. She’s be bleeding.”

The room sounds distant to his ears, but he’s found that silence spans universes.

Felix breaks it, his voice echoing casually into the cold. “See? Survival. And if it wasn’t about making the best of the worst situation possible, you and Mal and Jay and Evie wouldn’t have given a damn about stopping your peers from killing each other. You wouldn’t have thought about fair food distribution, just getting your own.” The voice pulls him back into himself, and he finds that Felix’s eyes are all too knowing as he adds, “That’s humanity itself, something they could never take from you. No matter how you were raised, or who did the raising, you’re the one to have the final choice in who to be.”

A thought flickers in the back of his mind, the connection between who this boy and his parents are, and who he knows on the Isle. The thought escapes before he realizes it. “Ginny would like you.”

The other boy blinks, clearly having to recall the name, and his eyes show shock when he remembers. “Gothel’s— She would?”  

Carlos lets a faint smile shatter his mask. “She’s been living on Uma’s ship since she was nine. They keep Mother Gothel from finding her.”

Felix swallows hard, calm fracturing into pain and determination. “I’d like to meet her, then.”

Shrugging, Carlos says, “We’ll see if she’s around.”

“What about…” Lonnie trails off, biting her lips, and suddenly Carlos notices quite a few of the Auradon teens seem like they have questions, too. He heard Janet give them the run-down earlier, but it was bare-bones. Mal just passed along basics. He settles into another seat, keeping an eye on the door for the tell-tale fraction of light that will indicate the Council’s ended. He has to face down this relentless curiosity. It is not going to be easy, and the broken ice has given too much of himself away already, but—

If they know, they might do less stupid things. If they know more about the kids of their parents’ enemies, maybe he won’t be asked too much more about himself. (Or Jay. Or Evie. Or Mal.) If they know, then maybe they’ll stop fighting his decisions at every turn.

“Shun-Yu?” he asks, which Lonnie confirms with a jerky nod. “Well, she’s probably not going to be our ally. But in school…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8/2017: now with a gorgeous piece of ART!!! I adore it! <3 
> 
> http://inkedinneon.tumblr.com/post/164185291342/soooooo-i-read-a-fic-and-it-was-sooo-very-good-so


	7. part 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking liberties with canon from the books, adjusting certain details to suit the story’s arc. Do not expect everything from the books to be reflected here!
> 
> Playlist songs for this chapter: “Until We Go Down” by Ruelle and “Paint It, Black” by Ciara.

Her dress is smooth blue satin, highlighting her natural mane’s hue. Her fingers balance a thin golden chain belt with a red heart clasp. To all appearances, she is debating the accessory. It’s not easy, after all, to look one’s perfect-princess best every day. If she emerges with a single hair out of place, Mother will be furious at such a substandard presentation. Never mind that the princes are no longer in Auradon—

Well. That’s what Evie hopes. The long night of fruitless hunting failed to recover their prisoners.

Maleficent sent hunters out that morning in the post-storm dawn, with an earthy scent rising from soaked stones and light refracting from every dripping rooftop. The villainous fury permeates the air. Only in the past hour did it temper into a low simmer. For all that the castle feels still, this state is as dangerous as a thunderstorm. 

Evie sends the golden links around her waist with a flick of the wrist, eyes darting to the top corners of her mirror. Her grand room appears empty save the royal trappings: delicate armoire, thick-columned bedframe, fluttering curtains, and glass-topped vanity. Makeup containers litter that sparkly surface, neatly closed but not returned to their former places yet.

The colors reflect her mother’s taste and the room’s emptiness might be a lie. There is no guarantee that Grimhilde trusts Evie.

Even if she were to speak the fragile thoughts that take shape in the darkest corners of her mind, there is nowhere safe to spill them. There might be eyes and ears of magic in every mirrored surface. She’s only confident of her secrets after a spell to clear a free bubble.

With their quartet split into a pair escaped and a pair remaining, Jay and Evie are watched from the corners of cold eyes.

Just as dawn broke, Grimhilde demanded “mother-daughter bonding time.” Evie held an ancient spell-book while her mother reinforced the cells in the dungeons. This was done just after the prisoners were taken out for “questioning.”

As they passed, the adults did not look at her. And Evie did not look at them.

The cells are now sealed with another layer, a particularly dark spell. A memory plays in her ears and her head.

(“It’s all about sacrifice,” her mother had purred while tossing aside a second fluffy white, no-longer-living rabbit. “Remember: it’s not to be underestimated or cast aside as unworthy knowledge, the way the fools here did. We understand that greater deeds are done with sacrifice.”

“Yes, Mother,” she had replied dutifully, while her eyes read the lines that revealed the one weakness of this sealing spell.  

Clayton and his aggravating son Clay had brought the prisoners back. Her mother had sealed both cells with a gesture that generated a lightning bolt right in the dungeons. “There,” Grimhilde had purred. “Someday soon, maybe we’ll have you cast a sealing spell.”

A tell-tale buzz of reactions spike from behind the sound-muffling charm. “If you think I’m ready,” Evie had demurred, turning her back on the cells to follow her mother. “Most of the spell I could do myself, if that’s how you put them all together.”

“My craft is precise and powerful,” her mother had boasted, taking her first step up the stairs. “Perhaps if you prove strong enough, we can eventually attune the keys to you. Then I wouldn’t have to waste my time anymore.”

She paused an instant too long and covered with a smirk. “How would you like me to prove that I am?”

“Oh, perhaps if you help Judge Frollo control the rabble…”)

This memory is chilling in the mid-afternoon sunlight streaming through her window. And hours later, the spark of possibility at gaining those warded keys crumpled in the wake of Maleficent’s next decision. Jay is even now slinking about to make sure that she can sneak into the dungeons.

While she hates that Plan B had to be, maybe it is, in the end, better to be here. Better to know what’s going on in the thoughts of these villains from right at the heart of the source, better to hear the next phase of their plans—

Of one thing, is she certain: Jay can only know that the extra sealing on the cells won’t break easily.

(She hasn’t told him that—

Stop it. This is her choice.)

She has to brace her fingers, placing them deliberately on her hips to hide their trembling.

Evie turns away from the mirror, to the vanity. Her fingers trail thoughtfully over various lipsticks and a container of rouge. Just a hint more color, for the paleness of her cheeks. Just a touch more bronzer to mask the evil seeping into her skin with every breath in this atmosphere. Just enough eyeliner to maintain the mask.

In the mirror, her eyes seem flat and dull. (Hold on. Just keep pretending.)

A click: Jay slips into her room. Their eyes meet through the mirror. She finishes her lipstick re-application, caps the tube, and rises to her feet. He waits until she’s close, until she’s murmured the words of a privacy spell, before speaking with the barest movement of his lips. “It’ll be in three days.”

“Are they still out?”

“Searching. No word yet.”

“How much time?”

“Just enough,” he says. His eyes linger, a hint of suspicion flicking: she remains placid. This is just in his nature, not a sign that she hasn’t been subtle enough. He turns the handle of the door and leads her into the hallway.

(He won’t guess.)

Pacing casually, Evie glances out of each window as they pass. They can see very little of the town below—just dark plumes of smoke, and shadow-guards marching in the streets.

The villains have been ransacking farms, expanding ever-outward to supply nightly banquets. The wine flows freely and the only times laughter is heard are at these. While running rampant here, the villains have yet to coordinate a concentrated attack further than the kingdoms that directly border the capitol.

This will change in the near future. Many civilians fled the capitol city and have tried to go to nearby kingdoms. Their leaders are not so lucky.

These royals lived in peace for so long that precautions, like not gathering all royalty in one location, did not seem occur to them. Gods and goddesses, cosmically forbidden from interfering in mortal life on such grand scales, can’t help them now. The few kingdoms lucky enough to have established royals still in power are yet to retaliate focused on taking in refugees.

And the rest cannot rally when their main leaders have been taken. Some siblings of their peers are too young to be at school yet, so cannot truly take charge. Others are older graduates who did not come to the coronation. These older siblings had been left in their kingdoms, a planned step to try the experience of ruling for a short time.

Or, so all involved thought.

She remembers these things as she walks because every scrap of information is necessary. Every detail could provide the key to stopping this outbreak of evil. Every piece, they will want to know.

Evie and Jay pass a handful of other descendants who came with their parents from the Isle: the Gaston twins and Clay wrecking armor down one corridor; Shun Yu and Hans the Second waltzing in the main hall; and CJ Hook with one of Yzma’s twins, Zevon, mocking the dancers.

She and Jay hurry out before the mockers are spotted and violently dealt with, and in the next corridor find Mad Maddy lounging on a window ledge with a tray of sweets.

“Headed anywhere interesting?” she drawls, flicking back her bright hair.

“Just have duties to take care of,” Jay replies, fingers plucking several pieces of candy out of the tray. He starts unwrapping one, turning around to walk backwards as he adds, “Some of us proved ourselves already.”

Mad Maddy’s eyes are flickering with jealousy when Evie looks over her own shoulder. “The rest of us can do just as much as you did! Just because you were chosen to come here first—”

“Exactly,” Evie interrupts with a purr, pausing long enough to brace one hand on her hip and turn coyly, batting her lashes. “We were the ones who made it all possible. Save some of that for later, won’t you?” Evie turns back to their path. “We’re sure to be hungry after we’re done.”

Jay continues walking backwards, chewing the candy and smirking. They turn the corner and pause, just long enough to hear the girl huff and stomp off in the opposite direction.

Their eyes meet. Evie catalogues the lines around Jay’s eyes and the way his jaw clenches. Only for a moment, she reaches out to clasp his hand and weave their fingers together. He grips her back tightly, squeezes once, and releases his hold. She allows their hands to fall apart again, maintaining their steady pace.

A few halls later, they split. Jay continues out in the open to his planned distraction, while Evie slides into a servant’s corridor. She does not look after him.

(Don’t give it away.)

Her hands lift her skirts as soon as she’s hidden. The shoes come off and she stows them in a nook, taking a pair of thin socks from her purse and slipping them on. Lastly, she casts an avoidance charm on the stones at the entrance, just in case they were wrong and Mad Maddy did follow.

Unhindered by potential noise, she keeps her skirts pulled back and hurries, silent on the stone in an empty, narrow hallway. She takes the stairs down, and down, and down, pausing at the guard’s chamber. Most of the guards are magical constructs of dust and malice, and remain fairly unobservant unless directly challenged to protect the area they’ve been assigned to keep clear. She does not intrude.

Evie continues until, finally, halting at the edge of dungeon candlelight, just out of sight. She peeks around the corner, seeing no guard, and waits the allotted count. Waits until sure that Jay must be at the very top of those stairs, with the guards that are always bored on duty.

Her heart pounds in her chest as she slinks around the corner, crouching low, close to the wall and then to the bars of the cells. Her eyes linger on the far set of stairs, even with the flux of buzzing voices in confinement. Their unheard words sink to a low hum as she keeps stepping silently, eyes on the far stairs.

Trusting in Jay, Evie takes five shuffling steps from the back staircase before she swivels on her knees. Here, she finds herself face-to-face with Queen Belle. She’s never seen the woman in such a state—hair undone and loose, sleeves discarded, gown torn all along the hem. The women are all in various states of crouching, leaning, or looming around their high queen.

The first words out of her mouth in a whisper are, “They weren’t caught.”

A few tears spill from Belle’s eyes and she nods once.

Pressing a hand to her stomach, soothing anxious butterflies, Evie continues, “Maleficent sent out hunters. It’s up to them, now. Carlos didn’t tell me or Jay where they might go. Just in case.” The evidence of needing just-in-case lies in the bruising and the bandaged wounds that some of these ladies and quite a few of the kings and princes now bear.

Evie’s not sure if she’d be able to hold her tongue. She’s never been strong, or brave, on her own.

Wary, she glances over her shoulder again. No sound, yet, but that doesn’t mean anything. When she turns back, Belle is gesturing for her to leave. This, she shakes her head to, grasping at the bars. “No, there’s more. The kingdoms bordering the capitol have fallen. Atlantis and Arendelle are taking in as many refugees as can make it to their lands, with help from Atlantica. Maleficent wants total surrender from them, but even the villains are saying it will turn to war.”

Hands fall to Belle’s shoulders, and she can also see hands clasping hands, reaching out to comfort. Her own body feels cold without her allies-friends-family around her. Evie pauses to show respect.

Then she has to tell them the worst.

“Maleficent’s also sent out a proclamation demanding for the escapees to be surrendered if they’re being helped, or for them to surrender themselves.” There’s more to that proclamation, but there’s only so much she thinks these men and women can take right now. “She’s giving them three days, before…”

She trails off. Swallows. Her eyes flicker to the men’s cell: they’re listening intently, too.

One of the princesses slaps the cell bars and those near reach out to calm her hands. Her very pale hands, pressed to the bars in front of a red-lipped face with dark hair.

Evie meets Snow White’s eyes. She knows what the woman wants by her action, by the twist to her lips and the scowl on her face: answers, and to lay down blame.

(She accepts the latter.)

This is what jolts the words out. “Before the executions start.”

A redhead in a northern-style gown, perhaps Princess Anna, leans into Snow White and clearly mouths, “Whose?”

Her fingers, restless against the bars, crumple into fists against the magic that she can’t undo. “Yours.”

Silence, then.

(She’s not even done, yet.)

Her fingers pluck at the strings of magic. “You saw that Mother added another spell here. They decided that the escape risk was too high. M—Mother’s had the keys on her day and night, and won’t let anyone else touch them again. That means no more food and water until…”

Trailing off, Evie’s eyes steal over her shoulder again. The darkened stairs remain empty, and contrast with the candles that are starting to burn fairly low. The pale faces in their cage glow in that dimming light.

Belle looks at her with steady calm, mouthing only the word, “You?”

Wincing, Evie admits, “She won’t trust me with the keys, not now that the plan’s no longer to keep you here. Jay thinks your best chance is to fight back when they let you out.” Unspoken in the air are the reasons this choice is difficult: weakness from hunger and pain, how many guards there would be, that they lack weapons…

There are many hands near hers, untouchable, across the barrier. They simply rest, supportive, reaching out to offer comfort. They give her courage.

(She doesn’t want—

It’s a chance. Her choice.)

“Or…you try for a breakout before then.” Her eyes meet the queen’s. Belle raises an eyebrow in question, lips pursing around a trembling jaw. “Mother’s book also described a way to break the new spell, and the others along with it. If nothing changes in three days, if we can’t get the keys a better way, then I can try. But it would be loud and we only have one shot at it and anyone in the castle who has magic would feel the breaking. Fighting your way out is still likely, but you’d have a bigger advantage.” She breathes evenly, slowly, letting nothing of her heartache bleed through. “All I ask is that you take Jay with you.”

“Us,” Belle mouths, confusion lining her forehead.

“You,” Evie replies, stilling the tremble of her hands by pressing them against the bars. “I won’t be able to go anywhere, after.” (Don’t ask why.) “And Jay would… He won’t be thinking clearly.”

Belle’s starting to scowl.

Evie can’t have that compassion turning to anger. “It won’t be easy, that’s all. He just wouldn’t want me to risk it, even if we have nothing better to try.”

When the fairy godmother nudges her way forward, her eyes fearful and gestures frenetic, a knot in Evie’s stomach twists. She’s trying to ask “how” and “what risk” and “dark magic, Evie, is it”—

(Damn it.)

Why did she believe her mother’s snide remarks? She should have realized that the best of good magic-users would learn about the darkest of spells, to fight back. A brief sideways glance to the king’s cage brings her gaze into brief contact with the Coach she knows through Jay and Carlos. The Genie gravely meets her eyes and tries to tell her, “no” and “dark magic needs”—

( _Damn_ it.)

Slowly, so carefully, she says, “I do know what dark magic needs. And I know what _this_ spell needs—it was written in the book.” Ancient in her hands that morning, the lines:

 _This Seale of darkest magick_ _may be perhaps broke in usual fashion, for if transferred to a living Sacrifice willing to take in this darkest magick, the Seale will go._

_The Sacrifice body should, as always, be buried properly after the fact._

Fairy Godmother asks “what book” and “how Evie how.”

Evie tilts her chin, looks her square in the eye, and says, “I can use my magic mirror. And a few other things, ones I need time to gather without Mother noticing.” Things like a wooden knife. A stone bowl. And her own blood.

She’s not lying, not really. The magic mirror can gain her a foothold to disrupt the spell. But the mirror can’t contain all of that magic, so the rest would flow into her. Into a sacrifice.

(Can she really—

For _them_? But, she has to, because—

To save her family? Yes.)

While the fairy godmother does not have access to her own magic in the cell without an instrument to channel it, she still knows plenty about magic of all types. Probably the same holds true for the Genie. Assuming otherwise has proven to be a bad move.

( _Idiot_. Of course they’d know. Stupid girl.)

Her tall tale is wavering in the eyes behind the bars. The Fairy Godmother clutches at her own skirt and repeats “are you sure” and “too dangerous” and “could kill you” and—

Evie curls her lips into the perfect smile trained into her muscles since birth. Her voice is nearly sharp, abrasively flippant. “Living here every day is dangerous. Sooner or later, Mother will get angry, after all. And she’ll forget that we’re not under the barrier anymore. If it’s a possibility either way, I’d rather my death be meaningful.”

All at once, the eyes on her are piercing, shocked, and horrified.

(What? Did they not realize—

But they’re the ones who were so afraid of their parents’ evil. Wouldn’t they have thought…?)

Belle’s fisted hands pound once against the bars to emphasize her emphatic denial, other words that Evie can’t interpret. She can guess, though—people here seem to think that living is very important.

Maybe mentioning Isle-style punishment was too much. But then, it’s just shocking enough a truth to mask her subterfuge. Make it a risk, not a certainty.

Her fingers twist together.

“Please,” she says, softer than before. “I’m not…good.” Her cheeks flush as she admits the pain of it, the truth that she is of evil. “All my life has only ever been Mother’s. I didn’t have a choice to…” Evie shakes her head at the memories of mirrors, of makeup, of restrictions and cruel words and demands. “ _I_ get to choose now. To take a risk, because I want to make sure my family—Mal, and Carlos, and Jay—get to live, and be who they really are, for once. And that can’t happen without you.”

So perhaps, that means it must happen without her.

(This won’t stop her, but her heart hurts already.)

Oh, there are tears. Hopefully that won’t go on too long, or they might dehydrate themselves faster.

She realizes her own watery eyes will destroy her makeup and looks up at the ceiling. In a world gone hazy, it is somehow easier to face these heroes, the only ones who can give her allies-friends-family a better future, one that they should have wanted earlier.

She might have felt real peace, in goodness. But evil must fall, no matter the cost.

“We _are_ trying to find something better,” she promises. “Just don’t let Jay know. H-he’d worry, he’s not as strong as he pretends to be,” she whispers, the secret burning out of her.

Belle is unreadable to Evie, because the queen’s displaying emotions that she does not recognize. Belle leans forward, intent, lips moving slowly—

Faint footsteps echo down the main stairs.

In the space of a breath, she leaps away from the bars, facing the stairs. No shadow, not yet seen—she still has time to run. Her skirts are gathered in her hands and she skitters back around the corner of the stairs, heart beating at her ribs, breathing as softly as she can force herself to, within a few seconds.

She can’t linger. While taking the stairs as fast as possible, as silent as possible, she pats away the few tears allowed to fall.

And she hopes that the adults are behaving normally. Well, as much as one can in a dungeon.

:: :: ::

“You can’t be serious,” Harriet proclaims loudly, scoffing. “Us, take on Maleficent? When she came here, we stood no chance. Now ye’ want to cast the black spot on all of us!”

“How are you fit to be tied at the idea of fighting back? You’re always ready to throw your sword down,” Freddie interjects, raising an eyebrow at Harriet. “Or don’t you recall that food’s almost gone? That she attacked us first? That we’ve already renamed ourselves the Isle of the Dead?”

“This is different!”

The two of them divulge in a barrage of foul language and insults, with Anthony throwing in an odd comment aimed at their intelligence every few seconds. Gaelle writes on a half-sheet of crumpled paper, to all appearances detached from the conversation.

Ben breathes slowly in this moment out of the spotlight.

He tamps down on the anxiety in his stomach at the less-than-happy reactions his proposal elicited, then comforts himself with the fact that the dynamics at this table are not too far from a meeting with his advisors. Honestly, after witnessing their earlier debate style, he’s probably just lucky that Harriet didn’t launch herself across the table at him for daring to speak. Daring to present a possible alliance bent on wrenching Auradon from villain hands.

He’d spoken carefully, with every effort not to appear condescending while making sure not to use phrasing too formal. They had listened, surprisingly without interruptions. At the time he spoke, Ben had thought that alone might be a marker of success.

Now? He looks to Mal for a hint.

She sends him a tiny quirk of the lips that could be a smile. His shoulders lose a fraction of their tension. (So, it was…?)

Gaelle passes her paper to Anthony, who takes it without glancing at her. Ben thinks that, mute as she seems to be, writing must be Gaelle’s best chance to clearly share her thoughts with others who have little practice understanding her language. The squabbling duo taper off, looking at Gaelle expectantly. No weaponry was drawn this time: a sign of deeper affection than the posturing would suggest? And, so quick to stop at the sight of an ally’s completed note—

Only then does the young king understand: they were giving her time to have her say, while indulging in what appears to be an Isle version of building camaraderie.

By cursing at each other… Well, it’s working for them.

Ben lets that thought fall aside. He’s curious to know what this council member, the scarred daughter of his parents’ enemy, has to say. Taking Mal’s advice from earlier, he knows not to let his eyes linger on the scars.

(Such cruelty. Does Gaelle—

Wait. Concentrate.)

Anthony reads with an inflectionless tone, not attempting convey emotions that are displayed clearly on Gaelle’s own face and in her gestures to emphasize certain parts of the speech. Her fierce gaze is locked on Ben.

“We are stronger together than we’ve ever been apart. With the splinters around the Isle, might even have the numbers and the desire for revenge on those villains that think we are better off dead. But we are not from Auradon, and we won’t fight like you. You’ve seen us. How do we know that, after we fight in your name, our graveyard won’t become our prison again?”

Taking her comments with the weight they deserve, Ben considers his words carefully. Her eyes are not unkind, not cold, not smug. In fact, she seems interested. He has a feeling that she wants to make this happen, if only based on Mal telling him that Gaelle would likely be one of their allies.

(Among other pieces of information, about her father’s crime of—

Concentrate.)

What he doesn’t know is exactly what part of his answer she thinks will sway the others. Cold-eyed Anthony appears neither convinced nor dismissive of the idea. Vocal Harriet makes her feelings clear, yet he can’t help but think half of it is for show. Her eyes are too piercing not to be thinking more than her vocal outbursts. And while Freddie talked her down, he also sees lines of tension and displeasure and worry around her mouth and forehead.

Then there’s the question itself, which makes him think of his lessons in leadership and an old discussion with his father.

_What is he willing to do, to protect his kingdom? His people? And what would he be required to do, should they be threatened?_

In safety at Auradon castle, a young and untested prince, he had given the answer he knew would be considered heroic. His first thoughts, never shared, would probably have caused a fight with his father. And after living through the past week of his almost-crowned life, he found neither answer alone sufficed.

A hybrid answer is what he came to that afternoon, stroking gentle thumbs over Mal’s soft, bare forearms in their seclusion. This is the answer he prepares to share, with careful attention to their very real concern.

He tilts his head to the side, allows his eyes to rove to each of the Council’s faces, and speaks. “There are lessons we’ve learned in Auradon, of fair treatment and loyalty and honor. In the short time I’ve spent on the Isle, I’ve seen the same in you. Just as you have held to Codes and honor here, held to your own rules, so to do we place value in our promises. I…” His eyes land on Mal. “I do not expect you to fight like this isn’t serious.”

A pleased glimmer flashes in her eyes.

His eyes continue roving from face to face. “I said before that our kingdoms were taken. To be precise, my people in Auradon are being held captive and abused by a tyrant. My throne, our thrones, were taken by force and with abundant violence. This is more than serious—this is war on a scale that our parents never fought in their time. And to win, we must accept that revolution is never bloodless.”

This is the time to make a gesture, begin to show in action what he has promised in words.

“Should you choose to join our war, we swear to you, that we shall do better for you as our citizens than we have in the past. I said you would be given a chance—let me be more specific about what that chance looks like. Each of your gang members would take their right to the freedom to settle off the Isle; the rights to better educations, necessary accommodations, and compensation for their service; and emancipation from their parents so that none of you are still bound to their choices. I ask that you consider this, and give us an answer by tomorrow.”

Mal raises an eyebrow.

Anthony drawls, “Do you think it should take so long?”

“I think it should take as long as you find yourself needing to consider the choice,” he replies.

From her seat at the head of the table, Mal declares, “We’ll vote tomorrow. Talk to your gangs—we don’t want fighters who don’t want to fight.”

“Calling ours weak?” Harriet snaps.

“Just saying. Besides, the splinters need to know, too.”

“We’ll take care o’ it,” she bites back, shoulders rising toward her ears. Ben’s eyes dart between the two girls, but whatever the undercurrent of their jibes, the squall seems to be passing.

Freddie tilts her chair back slightly, balancing on the back two legs for a moment. The thud of her chair draws their attention, even as she considers the ceiling as though there is artwork only she can see. “Speaking of the splinters…we should share updates for the returned and the newcomers. Have to know how the rest stand, after all.” She re-settles herself on the floor. “The splinters fell in line right quick, ‘cause too many are wounded to get into each other’s faces.”

“After Maleficent’s rampage, there were many dead and many injured, and less survivors than each,” Anthony adds. He takes out his handkerchief with a quick snap. “Asya is in charge of the hospital. She’s been sheltering any of the living wounded under the pier in the old garage. The dead were either put out to sea or tossed into the pyres that burned for three days after Maleficent came swooping in.”

“We could help at the hospital,” Ben says quietly, his heart aching at the thought of injured kids with no medicine on hand. “Several in my group have had basic medical training.”

“That would be…accepted,” Anthony responds, refolding the washed-out blue square of fabric and re-tucking it into his suit. He does not meet Ben’s eyes, but this time it feels less like a show of disrespect and more like an aloof mask to obscure gratitude.

Gaelle shoots him a tiny quirk of the mouth that seems caught between a smile and a scowl. Just like Mal. He’s getting better at reading Islander body language.

“Are there adults in the hospital?” Mal asks.

“Some.” Harriet’s frown is thunderous.

“Dizzy is there,” Anthony says. “The rest of our family is gone.” Ben takes that to mean his mother, aunt, and grandmother—his eyes are no longer completely cool and detached.

Freddie’s lips twist. “A handful of other adults. I know of Hermie Bing’s parents and Eddie Balthazar’s father, and old Yzma as well. Some of the kids whose parents tried to get rid of them are there, too. I was. Claudine is.”

( _Get rid of_ …their kids.)

Ben’s heart skips a beat. He’s seen enough, heard enough, that he thought he was done being shocked at each new low, each implied hardship and suffering. Then another one comes, and he feels the guilty weight of his kingdom’s responsibility to these young citizens. (They should have known about the Isle youth earlier.)

Mal only raises an eyebrow in query. “You?”

Freddie smirks. “My powers kicked in after my father tried to send me to the Other Side. I made some friends of my own there and they sent me back.” Her shoulders turn stiff and she adds, “And they’re letting me bring Claudine back a bit at a time. She’s fighting hard to stay here.”

“Surprising,” Mal murmurs.

That a girl would fight to live? Ben swallows back the questions: not the time, not the place, not the person…

“Want to hear another?” Harriet asks, her arms crossing in front of her. “Yen Sid went missing just ‘afore Maleficent attacked. Ginny saw him leaving the school an’ heading off toward the caves—then she had to take cover, what with dragon-mama flying ‘round overhead.”

Mal stiffens at the remark, but Ben’s too caught up in this unexpected tidbit of knowledge. “Yen Sid is missing?”

The others eye him, abrupt and hard in their suspicion. He’s not sure what’s wrong until Harriet snarls, “How do _ye’_ know him?”

His eyes widen a fraction before a sheepish smile passes across his face. He tries to clear the expression off quickly, already having picked up on how the sight of his genuine smile makes them distrustful and wary. “He…well, he works for me. For us. The crown, which I guess, was to be me.”

“What.”

He meets Mal’s eyes across the table, hiding a wince at her closed-off expression. (She hates surprises.) “I’m sorry, I forget how few people know, even in Auradon. Yen Sid’s a sorcerer from long before the magic ban and the Isle’s creation. When the Isle was proposed, he volunteered to come here, to be an inside observer. He’s reported out for a long time, but since most of the reports started with a front-page ‘running as expected’… no one actually… read the rest of his reports.”

“When did that change?” Freddie asks suspiciously.

Ben grimaces. “I was the first one, because I was starting to take on more responsibilities in preparation for leading my kingdom, and, well, I thought it would be something I couldn’t mess up too badly. That’s when we realized that there were…you.”

They all blink at him, uncomprehending.

He elaborates. “The Council’s attention was brought to the fact that there were kids on the Isle. It got...messy, for a while, but the end result was voting my father out from his role as high king and voting in a new high king.”

“You,” Mal said softly. Their eyes meet again across the table, and she looks shaken. “Yen Sid wrote that we existed, and because you paid attention, that led to you becoming high king. To you decreeing that we could come to Auradon.”

“Yes,” he says, simply.

Because it really is simple, in the end. He was the first one to take the time to look more closely at the Isle of the Lost, to really consider Yen Sid’s supposedly-repetitive reports worth spending his time looking through. It was in the middle and last pages that he read those damning references to constructing schools from barge supplies and to handfuls of children, by name.

Ben also paid attention to how the references were never blatant, never highlighted to boldly declare to Auradon that a shift had happened in their supposed grand plan.

It was as though the old sorcerer were trying to sneak the fact past someone else.

Someone who’d be looking through the reports before or after they reached Auradon.

Someone who might prevent him from telling.

He’s still not sure who that person is—it can’t have been his father, the reaction he’d had was too visceral. But Ben hadn’t known how to look into it, and the Auradon Council responded with outrage, so he’s left with the question and no answer.

Looking at this Isle Council, he’s well aware that he’s given up a card he could have played close to his chest. Perhaps he could have leveraged it, but again, he’s trying to build trust here. No better way than in admitting the mistakes and failures of his kingdom.

“I just happened to be the one to look,” he says, redirecting them. “The more important point here is that Yen Sid wouldn’t have left for no reason. With the barrier down, he could do magic again. There must have been something important, if he didn’t try to face down Maleficent.”

“As if he could’ve fought her off,” Harriet scoffs.

“He should have been able to,” Ben countered softly. “His spells were what got her here in the first place, not that she ever knew exactly who did it.”

They all glance between each other, curiosity and suspicion abounding. He’s not sure that they believe him fully, not yet. But they are considering it, and as he catches Mal’s eye again, he knows that she’s had the same thought that he did.

Yen Sid can help Mal with her own magic, or with the mysteriously missing magic wand. Maybe both.

“We need to find him,” she declares. “Or try to figure out where he’s gone.”

“In the morning, Ginny can show you the place she last saw him,” Freddie says. “By the caves.”

“Then Ben and I will try to find Yen Sid. If they’re up to it tonight, Carlos can take any of the others who have had that medical training to Asya’s hospital,” Mal decides.

“Asya will be waiting,” says Anthony as he rises to his feet. His cold eyes flicker to and hold Ben’s for an instant longer than necessary. “You will have our answers to your proposal tomorrow.”

“Better work on developing your magic a bit more, Mal,” Freddie says, sliding out of her chair. “I can’t help, ours is too different in source, but it’s certainly one of our advantages if the creek don’t rise. Might feel like piddling your time, since you’ve had it at your fingertips in Auradon all along—”

“We need every advantage we can get,” Mal cuts in, not meeting anyone’s eyes as she slips from her leisurely slouch to a saunter in fluid motion. “I’ll hold my own. You just hold yours.”

She doesn’t look at him as she heads for the closed door, but then, she doesn’t need to: he’s noticed that weaknesses aren’t shared on the Isle.

They expect Mal to be as powerful as her mother. What will happen if they learn she’s magic-less?

:: :: ::

Mal has her palms on the doors when Anthony asks, “Are you going to be much longer?”

If not for his tone, she’d have thought he was giving her trouble. But, as someone who has known this boy most of her life, she can hear the subtle shift between his two ways of speaking—there’s the voice to every person existing on the Isle, and that to the four women who matter (sister, mother, cousin, companion).

She turns, having sent both doors flying open and thudding solidly against the hallways on either side. Faintly, from the kitchen, their Auradon tag-along voices echo in the hall. Harriet and Freddie brush past.

Anthony lingers: Gaelle stands near Ben. Anthony’s gaze digs into Mal, nearly a warning, a threat. But Ben is no danger. And is _in_ no danger.

(Gaelle’s too set on her revenge.)

Still, she steps in, too.

Gaelle places an envelope on the table in front of him, yellow and battered with age. The curling script across the front reads “Belle.”

Mal has to give Ben credit for mastering his expression. He was wobbly in her room earlier, when she made him rehearse for this Council. (And when told the gang leaders’ stories, including Gaelle’s, before the Council.)

(Composure is key.)

Gaelle’s hands dance and Anthony reads them the way he’s taken to doing in the past few years, whenever she wants a voice. “My mother did not survive Maleficent, but she has tried to be dead for years. This letter is one of the last things she wanted to say.”

Ben’s lips twist in sympathy and he takes the letter. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says. “And I will do my best to take this to her.”

The young woman nods, and again Anthony verbalizes, “I have a demand for your proposal.”

“If it’s in my power, I can consider it before the vote,” Ben replies. Mal raises an appreciative eyebrow. No outright promise, requiring time in return, and a subtle reminder, all at once: smooth and polite. (Damn. That courtly style… Intriguing.)

“I have waited years for my revenge. My father will fall in this war, will pay for his crimes at my hand, and you and yours will not stand in my way.”

Ben’s jaw tightens. “Revenge is not a reason to join a war,” he says, even as faint lines of worry deepen around his eyes. “As to how he will pay, I think you and I might have different understandings of what shape justice takes.”

Gaelle sneers. At this, her hand rises to her face and points at the jagged lines scarring her skin. She tilts her head to make them prominent, frames them with her fingers. She then thumps one hand against her chest and holds up both hands with all fingers extended. They close, then she raises three fingers. Her hands jerk and shake with emotion, continuing her message, and Anthony barely keeps it out of his own voice. “I was thirteen and my father said women should not be heard. I will take what I can, even if that means you send me back here after your war. You will not try to stop me.”

For a long moment, Ben is silent. (Don’t push her too far…)

He finally says, “This is a situation that falls outside of war. It’s not what we’re setting out to do, and that has to be our common goal. If you’re running off after just one person, you’re passing by a dozen more whom you could stop from hurting your gang and your allies.” Her eyes flicker. “Consider my offer: set aside your revenge until we get what we _all_ are trying to achieve. And then, with that done, I swear myself to helping you find justice.”

Her lips are thin and her hands are fists.

Ben sees that and adds, “You don’t have to trust me, yet. I know that you don’t want to consider it in case you miss your chance. But let’s be realistic: if we lose, you lose everything. If we win, you will have your justice.”

She watches him, considering. Finally, her hands move. “And if he happens to die in war?”

“My offer can only be honored if you don’t intentionally abandon your allies to go off seeking him,” Ben warns her.

(Just enough of a catch in the deal to meet her suspicions. Wicked.)

Gaelle’s eyes clear. She nods twice, emphatically, agreeing, and sticks out her hand.

This needs no translation. Ben shakes firmly. Business complete, Anthony and Gaelle leave.

Mal waits until Ben’s shoulders are slumping, the room is clear, and no one is coming to claim their time yet. Then she nears his turned back, resting her palms on his shoulders and pressing gently down.

“You handled that well,” she says quietly. A girl barely older than her, whose fury has driven her to survive each day since she showed up with the scars her father gave her, agreeing to wait and trust in this alliance. (Near-impossible, yet he made it happen. Was this a kind of magic that good possessed?)

“I really don’t know what the answer is,” he replies, shoulders still tense under her hands. “The Isle is the worst punishment on the books. My father banned the death penalty after it was created. And even if we had it, she can’t just kill him herself. That’s not justice.”

“Isn’t it?” This is an echo from earlier. “What better justice is there than the victim punishing their attacker? Death is perfect for someone who’d do that to a child.”

“That’s not exactly what the concept of justice is about,” he says, repeating the echo—before she sees the fractured ruler just melt into a weary boy, worn by days of stress. “But I’m about to be very unheroic about this war. Leading my peers to fight their parents… Maybe I shouldn’t be the one making any decisions—”

“You aren’t making them alone,” Mal interrupts, nudging him until he turns and she can take his free hand in her own. “Don’t forget that this is my alliance.”

“I could never, fae-queen of the Isle.”

She shakes her head. “Just a gang head, that’s it.”

“Oh, that’s all? How disappointing.”

A slight scuff against the ground distracts her. Carlos slouches through the door. Mal greets him with, “Right. You’re going to—”

“Harriet screeched the plan at us on her way out,” he interrupts. “Some of the others are already rummaging through the cupboards for supplies. We have a handful of volunteers who know a bit more than wrap-a-cloth-around-it-and-press. Only Janet and I are going tonight, to take stock and see how many other hands we need and what supplies to track down.”

“Are you sure?” Ben asks. “It’s been a rough…week and two days.”

“It’s been hard for all of us.” Carlos shrugs. “Janet’s up to go, so I’ll keep her safe on the way.” His sharp eyes darted between them. “I also hear that Yen Sid’s the guy to find on the Isle right now.”

“You’re not coming,” Mal deadpans.

“Aw, c’mon, Mal—”

“No. Whoever’s signing on for the hospital can’t be left to wander alone.” Mal hesitates, then reaches out to grasp Carlos by the shoulder. “That’s where you’re needed.”

His lips pinch together at the corners, twisting down. “And what if he can’t tell you about the wand?”

Her rising chest freezes, lungs still an instant in the wake of a question she hadn’t brought up to the Council. Her eyes dart to the door and Carlos rolls his eyes at her caution, one eyebrow quirked in disapproval. “Sorry. Of course you checked.”

One of his hands wavers in the air, a gesture to forget the brief moment of distrust. “Besides, it’s not just the wand.” This, he doesn’t even dare say aloud, but it’s in his frown and the way he leans in.

Her arms cross. “Yeah. I’m still how she left me.” (Magic-less and seeking a way to solidify her power before her allies know she’s weak.)

Carlos can’t read minds, but he knows hers so well. He shrugs and says, “If it’s to do with either, you still don’t know what you’ll be facing when you find him. If you do. I should be there.”

“No, you should be playing guard dog,” she retorts.

The younger boy scowls.

“Ben will be with me.” She hesitates before adding, “If we don’t find him the first time, then you can help.”

(Not bending, not promising, but enough.)

He gives in with a grimace and Mal looks more closely. Carlos seems entirely too tired for her taste. She’d gotten used to seeing him better rested in Auradon. Just seeing him all curled up in blankets and piled pillows made her feel a riot of anger and joy. (Their Carlos in a real bed of his own—the stuff of goodness itself.)

Caught in her memory, she says, “Join me when you get back. We might not have the others, but you know where my room is.”

He nods, eyes darting strangely, and that’s when she remembers. Ben. Her…something.

And she recalls how eavesdropping in bathrooms leads to plenty of information about how partnerships in Auradon work. Their standard of bed-sharing is… extremely different. All bound up in bodily expectations. Ones that would make her blush if she did (her cheeks were not hot, nope).

Carlos leaves, then, without speaking. The boy at her side has yet to say anything, either, but if he’s thinking in the way those eavesdropped conversations went—well, she has to put a stop to that right away. “Ben, look, I—”

“Didn’t just have sleepovers with Evie?” She blinks at his vaguely amused expression. He’s the one blushing a faint shade of pink, and when she can’t make a reply pop out, goes on to add, “I’ve noticed the occasional one bed made, one bed unmade, in your two rooms. And, not to sound too weird, but I also noticed how Jay and Carlos’ bedframes shift a little sometimes, always when you and Evie have perfectly made beds in the morning.”

“You pay a lot of attention to people’s beds, Ben?”

He snorts at her deadpan tone. “I mean, usually you notice decorations or other things people have hanging in their rooms. I guess, since none of you really decorated to claim the space, it was more noticeable.”

She nods, slowly. (Way too observant. Unusually so.)

Then Ben shrugs, and adds, “Plus, Carlos and Jay were talking in the locker room once, and I just happened to be in my own aisle when they thought I wasn’t—”

He breaks off into laughter as she rolls her eyes.

(Who knew he had it in him?)

“You liar,” she accuses, “you eavesdropped. That’s how you knew.”

“Well, partly,” he says, shrugging. “I did pay attention after that, so it’s not really a lie. Just told a little…out of order.”

Her head is shaking, but her lips are curling up. The tension of the meeting rolls off her own shoulders, as does her momentary uncertainty of what he might think too inappropriate by Auradon standards.

Which means he might need an explanation, anyway.

“It started because Evie and I actually had beds,” she tells him, crossing her arms over her chest. “And whenever Jafar or Cruella were having a particularly… bad night, they’d come over. Then sometimes, it’d be bad for Evie, too, or me. It’s just what you do on the Isle—find somewhere to lay low, with an ally or on the street.”

When her eyes rise from his shoulder, she momentarily regrets being so blunt. The cracks in his composure are alarming, mostly because she’s seen them growing daily.

Then the unreadable expression peels away and his big hands curl around her upper arms. His eyes seem filled with sadness instead, mixed with…something warm. (Love? Maybe.) “You all cared for each other, protected each other. Don’t be ashamed of that, Mal. I get it.”

(Does he? Then—would he?)

“Can I protect you?” she whispers, before she can second-guess her own desire.

“We’ll protect each other,” he promises, rubbing his thumbs in small circles.

She lets her folded arms fall open, reaching out to his sides. “I meant, for tonight. The Isle way.” A flicker of surprise passes over his face and she hastily tacks on, “It’s okay if you don’t want—”

“No, it’s not—yes, I—” he sputters. Pauses. Takes a slow breath, calming, fingers remaining loose on her skin. Because of the gentleness of his grip, she doesn’t panic as he finds a way to rephrase his words. (It’s harder than it looks.) “I mean, would Carlos mind me…joining…you?”

“You didn’t,” she points out. “Like I said, this is how we protect each other here. None of the others would mind, actually, at this point. We…trust you.” It’s a tentative trust, but that’s almost more than they had when first starting to work as allies with one another.

“Then I would be honored,” Ben replies. “That’s the Auradon way, to say it.”

“I think the Isle way is just…hey, thanks, rotten pillow.”

“Rotten…?”

“Evil, remember? Good is not good, here.”

He blinks as she tugs him closer. “That will take some getting used to,” he admits. “Is that part of how the Council reacts? Everything’s in opposites?”

More like, behind a mask. “A little,” she says. “But let’s leave the recap for tomorrow, okay? It’s been a long day.”

He agrees, and she drags her uncrowned-but-still-king from the meeting room.

:: :: ::

The moon is high in the sky when Carlos returns, blinking dry eyes as he works his way up the stairs. Mal’s room is familiar, if approached from a different angle than normal, and her bed is the same. He wedges himself into the space beside the smaller lump, barely making the mattress wobble. He still stirs the further figure, whose arms embrace the girl lying between them. Ben’s eyes blink slowly open, tracking in the ambient light when Carlos gives him a small, silent wave.

Both boys yawn within seconds of each other, then stifle tired laughs. Carlos lets his weary head fall on the pillow, curling up into a ball. With the ease of long companionship, Mal shifts to allow him to nestle under her outstretched arm.

Quiet falls within moments—at least, until dawn.


	8. part 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist songs for this chapter: “Superpredators” by Massive Attack and “The House is Burning Down” by Patrick Park.

In the red-sky morning, Uma waits. Her ship still smolders and her boys are also waiting, in their bunks if they know what’s best for them. Gil moves like he lost his sea legs and Harry’s not been awake long enough for any sort of talk, so Ginny went on watch and Uma took off through the alleyways, leaving her crew to shelter one another against the ongoing storm of Isle turmoil.

This is what’s best for all of them. 

At dawn she woke the Auradon newcomers sheltered in the dragon’s lair. The fit lad who’d answered the door at her banging had blinked dumbly, sword in hand, as she sauntered right past him. Mal would be delightfully irritated at her intrusion, even though Carlos took her message the night before—

_“Take our help, or not. Doesn’t matter to us either way.”_

_“Oh, is she the big bad boss, again? We’ll have to have a little chat tomorrow.”_

_“Now’s not the time for a grudge match, Uma.”_

—though, intentionally, she’d kept the timing to herself. This didn’t stop Carlos from appearing right when she passed Tall, Blonde, and Dumb at the door. (Just as she’d expected.)

And so, she waits in the leader’s chair of Mal’s Fortress while Carlos plays guard dog at the door.

Her ally-turned-nemesis is taking her sweet time, but Uma wasn’t going to let that bother her. Power is strategy and timing. Uma has been waiting for longer than this one morning. Waiting with her teeth bared at her rival in all schemes ever since Mal was chosen to leave the Isle. Eager to cut into the girl for having a chance she was denied.

The broadcast of Mal’s failure had felt like a star-lit sea laid at her feet.

The aftermath had been like a treasure stolen from her ship’s hold.

There are a hundred different ways to start these careful negotiations. Her words twist and turn in her mouth, unchosen. A roiling sea of thoughts keep her company, more than the gawkers in the hallway peeking around Carlos’ thin shoulders.

Until, finally, Mal enters the room with the would-be king trailing at her heels.

Neither seems fit for the Isle. The deposed ruler is garbed in half-Isle gear—borrowed from De Vil, the resident wearer of black-and-white fabrics—and the ragged royal colors of Auradon. He carries himself with untested confidence, like someone who is equal to Mal rather than following her lead. (Unusual, on the Isle.) Mal, at least, carries herself the same, even with her best leather armor missing in action.

Habit keeps Uma from acknowledging that she can count Mal’s ribs when her stomach is so exposed.

(Habit does have her recalling all the ways she could kill a soft-bellied enemy with such little shielding.)

Conquering the Isle required battles and threats and low blows to keep on top of the pecking order. Mal’s missing jacket is more than a victim of circumstance or a snide comment on Uma’s fighting ability—and it’s a reminder that nothing compares to what Maleficent has already done. A nod to the fact that this girl escaped, that this half-fae has powers, now, that just might rival any that Uma can claim from her own heritage.

A captain never falters: Uma stays put as Mal stops like she’s on-deck before the wheel, with a curled lip and a biting, “Trespassing? You know the consequence for that.”

Words find their way at last. The truth comes easily, as if they are still little girls running wild on the docks. “My mother died for me.”

Mal blinks once, controlled. Her mouth is sour and—

And Uma can still feel the burning of Harry’s forehead under her fingers, hear Gil’s smoke-raspy voice in her ears, see her mother’s howling face while flinging planks into the air at a dragon. Betrayal, in Maleficent’s eyes. Uma snorts. “Ursula never gave a damn any other day in her life. But when the sky went black…she fought, rather than let me and my ship burn.”

“Good to know,” Mal replies, one eyebrow pointedly raised. Her jaw is ticking, having heard the reminder lingering underneath.

_My mother protected me, and yours tried to kill you._

All the bitterness between them: Mal got something Uma wanted, and lost it all in a cannonball crash. She’s come back hunted, tortured, and humiliated far worse than any of Uma’s most vindictive dreams. (Those were never really her dreams at all.)

Wrist slack on the hilt of her sword, she asks, “Remember that little lie we used to tell ourselves, running around on the docks?”

Mal’s eyes glint green, brighter without the barrier to suppress latent magical talent. Even a magic-cancelling barrier couldn’t entirely remove inborn traits—otherwise, Uma’s brother wouldn’t have been such a shipwreck all his pathetic life. (And she could have hel— No. Not here.)

The half-fae snarls, “I don’t give a damn.”

Uma glances at the unknowing man-boy behind her. “We all had the same saying,” she says, directing the comment towards him, maintaining eye contact. “A lie to make it all make sense.”

Beside him, Mal’s stiff shoulders are as loud as any warning bell. “Uma—”

A growl isn’t enough to stop what has to be said. “We’d say, ‘Mother loves me in her own way.’”

 _Clang_.

Mal launches herself across the room and they meet, knife stopped by sword, arms raised, Uma out of her seat with boots braced against the floor. The boy-king shouts and Carlos stops him and Mal lashes out again, again, _again_ —

Only Uma’s lie turned out to be the truth.

She slides her way down the length of the room, clash-clank marking every staggered step of the way, not letting Mal get in a real swipe. A jump up and back leads her to precarious balance on a chair, then the table, parrying and defending against a loose cannon. Blindly, the other fighter follows her up, not noticing that the higher ground is being given away.

Keeping a cool head gets any fighter the upper hand: Mal has already lost, even if she doesn’t notice yet.

She lost the moment she entered the room, ready to fight Uma on sight, because—

Because it’s what they do, the two of them. What they’ve done for so long. This is their version of normal, which means that Auradon must be the exact opposite. Her curling smile seems to terrify the gawkers at the door almost as much as the viciousness of their slashing swords.

What’s more, the faint ache of her muscles makes her feel real again. As real as the weak little waves lapping at the island’s rocky shore. Uma hasn’t felt that in some time, either, she realizes as she ducks and twists under Mal’s arm. She hasn’t felt normal since—

A fire on a ship and a boy with a hook and another clutching his chest lying on the wharf—

She hasn’t felt like she could breathe until now.

Until she’s kicked the knee of her opponent from behind, until her sword is at the back of the girl’s head, until the fae is on her knees.

Uma’s boot heels are balanced on a table’s edge. “Are you done?”

Mal curses vividly at her.

Uma kicks again, crouches, and drops one knee in the small of Mal’s back. “I said—”

The world spins, her elbow sends a nerve-deep jolt of pain straight through her arm, and her swords on the floor. Mal’s eyes are shining green above her, breath coming in almost like an animal snarl through her nose, hands clawing for her throat—

Uma shoves her hand aside and sneers up at her, “Done now?”

Mal spits and snarls, “Not until you are.”

“Fine, I yield,” she snaps, still wrestling for control, still blocking Mal’s hand with her own.

Mal’s nails dig into her palm as she stills. “You—what?”

“You _win_.”

Startled, Mal grunts when Uma kicks her off. But instead of continuing the fight, Uma places the table between them.

They glare across the expanse.

Fight-tossed, Uma smooths her braids back from her ears and resettles her fraying coat on thin shoulders. Her gloves feel ever so slightly askew, but this is not the place for adjustments. Mal, equally breathless, appears more put together by the thin grace of tighter clothing—but not by much. Eyes widened and jaw muscles twitching unevenly, the conquering queen of the Isle doesn’t look so confident anymore.

This is enough to please Uma into offering, “You know, I always thought it was a lie, too.”

Mal bristles at the reminder, then tilts her head thoughtfully to the side. Her wild purple ringlets settle as she brushes a hand through them. “You can stop reminding me now, Shrimpy.”

For the first time, Uma smirks at the insult. She steps on her sword, flinging it up into her hand. “I also hear you’re going to make your mother pay for it the Isle way.”

Green eyes flash and glow. Her pointed chin dips once.

There’s only one thing left to say. “Count my crew in. We’ll take the offer your boy made.”

Mal’s expression, at its most unreadable, is still a message in itself. The so-called queen hates needing Uma as much as she wanted to hear someone accept that offer that’s been making the rounds of the Isle since late last night.

Turning her back to her defeated enemy, Uma moves to pass the throne-less king. His eyes are guarded enough, for someone who must have had much less practice. Just as she anticipated, he’s already accepted her splinter gang into that long-contested alliance.

She pauses at the door. “Send those others who know a thing or two out to the wounded when they’ve woken up some more.” Her eyes scan the cluster lingering in the hallway. “There’s real work to be done before we fight with you.”

Flicking her braids over one shoulder, she saunters off down the hall. No use sticking around when there are wharf rats to bully into cleaning, Gil to mind and keep busy, crew to reorder, Harry—

They’re waiting. They won’t be waiting long.

:: :: ::

The swishing braids disappear, and the room feels large enough to breathe again.

(One more test, passed.)

Turn. Breathe. Walk. Mal almost reaches Ben before he moves. The embrace lasts long enough that her body feels warmer when he lets go. (This warmth could burn.) When she pulls away, she’s found a steadiness in her own spine again.

His voice is low. “Are they likely to help or hinder?”

“Help. For as long as _they_ want,” she replies. Their eyes meet. “Uma has a plan. But then—”

“They all do,” he finishes her sentence. Nods. Crosses his arms. “Everyone has a motive, an agenda, and a set of moves they want to make. But for long enough, they’ll be on our side—and maybe by the end, we can keep them there.”

He has such big dreams, such grand visions of the future. She almost can’t remind herself to be realistic in the face of them. He’s planning for them to remain a part of the world outside this island—and she’ll just have to make sure no one destroys the future kingdom. Even if that means their current allies turn into enemies.

She moves toward the door, half expecting more words to tangle in her ears and make her footsteps slow. All Ben does is fall into step beside her.

(Exactly what she needs.)

Carlos is in the kitchen when they enter, having passed a non-subtle mass of Auradon peers. Their eyes meet and they let the watched feeling slide off their shoulders.

She reaches around him for the cracked water jug. “We’ll start at the school and then make our way out to the caves,” she tells him. They both already know what today’s plans include. “If anything happens—”

Lockdown, keep weapons handy, be prepared for siege. “Yup. Got it,” he says, a half-smile fleeting on his lips.

“Just make sure that they do, too.”

He shrugs at her, casual, even as his chin dips down deferentially. “We’ll take care of ourselves. Focus on finding Yen Sid.”

:: :: ::

Janet feels like the resident Auradon expert in Isle politics. Last night’s trip to the makeshift hospital gives her more perspective than her classmates, despite them all being huddled the same in their nightclothes outside the meeting room. While in her treehouse home this clothing would be nothing unusual, for Auradon’s propriety standards, it’s pushing the boundaries. (And for her personal comfort next to her oldest friend…well. There were thoughts better left in the back of one’s mind.)

Predictably, a fight had just ended. The uncomfortable pattern’s becoming clearer.

Mal and the newcomer with blue-black braids battled to a bloodless end. A truce was offered—why it was necessary remained mysterious—and Janet made sure to nudge a path open before the intruder swaggered back out of the Fortress.

As they reclaim the hallway, Janet cuts the gossip and prodding with a firm, “I know her.”

Her classmates eye her. Not disbelievingly—just unsure they want to know yet another unsettling thing. Aria and Eileen step back with intent. Ally and Chad and Seth yawn widely and turn back to their rooms to prepare for the day. Unsurprisingly, Jane never emerged from the girl’s room in the first place, and Audrey bites her lip but also goes back to her self-imposed duty.

(No one else wants to think about the little half-fae.)

Exchanging their habitual, but communicative, glare, Megan and Mervin collapse against opposite walls. “An’ ‘ow d’ye know ‘er?” Mervin yawns and scrubs his hands through thick auburn curls. Dragged from exhausted sleep, his Scottish accent is thicker than usual.

“From the hospital,” Janet replies, wary of saying too much without Carlos helping translate the nuances of Isle existence. “Uma was there last night.” The girl’s bristling body had lurked at the bedside of two boys, offering only a glimpse of loose accessories—a silver hook and a pair of yellow gloves. She’s not sure about the latter, but can guess the former.

Felix rubs his eyes. “Well, she has one hell of a way to make an entrance—and an exit,” he says to Janet. His familiar shoulder presses gently against her own, solid and comfortable. She tugs at the hem of her nightdress. “Didn’t Mal say no one would try breaking in here? But she just swanned past Phil, no hesitation!”

“I think that one’s a special case,” she replies.

“Why? Is she more powerful than Mal?” More than one of their classmates nudges closer. “She wasn’t at their alliance meeting.”

Janet shakes her head. “She’s a leader, though. Carlos’ presence made a lot of them wary.” Twitchy, not meeting his eyes—prey in the presence of a predator. “That girl wasn’t, and Carlos treated her like he did the others who were here last night.”

“So, she is powerful. A splinter, then?”

“Yes, if that’s the right term,” Janet answers. She shakes her head and adds, “Someone important to her is in the hospital. Someone she’s afraid for—when Carlos and I got too close, it was like facing down a charging hippopotamus.”

Someone snorted. Clearly, one of her classmates had never studied much zoology.

“What’s her lineage?” a faint voice asks from behind her. Janet turns enough to meet Lonnie’s calculating gaze.

Janet scopes out who has lingered and sees that the news wouldn’t immediately cause uproar. “Uri’s sister.” Other eyes dart around the group, too. “Doesn’t seem like a happy sibling bond.”

“It’s not,” Carlos says, walking past them on his way to the kitchen. “And we need to get a move on, soon. They’ll be expecting us at the hospital.”

She jumps, drawing her hands close to her chest. He doesn’t pause despite having halted all conversation, pace sharp and determined. Even from behind, she sees the shift in his shoulders as that horrid persona settles back into place.

The body language he shifts between—from a fearful, shy kid like her, to the hunting stalk of a jaguar—has set her off balance each time she witnesses how the Isle has left a deep mark. Last night, alone with him, she felt like she was lost back home, with all the dangers of a jungle at her side. She felt that adrenaline surge even knowing that he can shrug it off like a well-worn coat and transform back into a playful youth always one step behind his protective friends.

But then, they had only been in Auradon a handful of months, compared to an entire childhood on the Isle. Which is truly an act?

Her friends debate that question quietly in the rare minutes together since becoming fugitives from the villainous law. How much of Mal’s ice had thawed for real? How much of Carlos’ weakness was false?

Nakul sees the best in both of them, believing that Auradon allowed them to uncover their inner goodness. Felix is pragmatic, assuming that their habits are not yet broken even if they want to be different. Janet thinks, perhaps, that neither persona is a lie. Both are fragile in construction, yet as necessary as ingrown vines wrapping around a tree trunk, which become essential to the stability of the whole plant.

Mal emerges from the meeting room, Ben at her side, and Nakul immediately redirects the group with a question about potential food sources. Their leaders raise eyebrows at them, but neither pauses on their way to the kitchen.

“These alliances aren’t as strong as they seem,” Hugh murmurs, eyeing the doorway where they disappeared. “Even connections we think are solid, aren’t, here.” In Auradon, there is no truer connection between one kingdom and the next than that of a family link—marriage, siblings, distant cousins. All bind them together.

“Family relationships actually seem to be the opposite,” Phil agrees.

It’s a troubling observation. Are their clasped hands or hugs considered a weakness? Is the idea that brothers and sisters stand together totally unknown? Janet feels the pressure of Felix’s shoulder against hers waver as though they share the same thought. She leans against him in direct defiance of the possibility.

Besides, she was in the make-shift hospital the night before. “Maybe that’s the expectation their parents tried to force, but it seems more a performance than anything,” she thinks aloud, the thoughts coming together as she says them. “In the hospital, among the wounded, there were siblings, friends. Companions.” Uma’s hand resting so gently on pale, soot-stained wrists flash in her mind’s eye. “The wounded can’t take care of themselves, after all.”

“An idea has to exist in order for it to be discouraged,” Felix murmurs. Janet’s not the only one to nod.

If their Isle compatriots won’t admit love for one another, then she and her companions will just have to watch their words—and show them how.

:: :: ::

Carlos takes the long way to the makeshift hospital in the old garage. Janet already saw this path, and now he’s also aware of Nakul and Felix right on her heels, Lonnie marching along just behind them.

Focused, intent, swift. Apparently, they’ve noticed that walking with a purpose keeps them from being bothered by the wandering packs of loose brats.

Right now, no one would really mess with the Auradon teens. The Isle of the Dead would rather resurrect itself than give their parents the satisfaction of winning—and that means not stabbing their newest allies in the back.

But if they knew about Mal’s lack of magical power, the alliances might not hold.

Whispers from last night are telling. Everyone expects Mal to rival her own mother in magical ability. Dizzy told him the coronation broadcast had been corrupted by the power-struggle over the staff, so no one on the Isle had heard Maleficent’s words after that point or saw more than flickering pieces of Mal’s loss.

The longer Mal went without using magic of any sort, the more suspicious their allies would become.

Even though she saw them off that morning, he still loathes not being at Mal’s side right now, hates the twitchiness that comes from being unable to watch her back. From knowing that these untested Auradon youth at his back might let him down.

He hasn’t felt that fear on the Isle in a while. Not since joining their gang. The old memories of being alone itch at his spine.

The group reaches a driftwood plank that covers the entrance to the hospital. He lifts it, lets the others slip in first, and casts a sharp glance around before following. There’s no one to see in the early morning light that sulkily breaks through low-lying clouds.

Inside, the hospital is musty and reeks of salt, iron, and sweat. Dim lights flicker from half-used candles spaced between the wounded. They lie on the floor. Just like the night before, there is a far corner with no direct light. The shadows show it has been emptied. He wonders where the dead were taken, wonders who was among them. Wonders how many more will go before—

Before what, he’s not sure. Can they really fight back? Or is that a prideful pipe dream?

His eyes skim over sad faces, like Eddie and Hermie. Their parents were like his mom, cruel to animals—an aristocrat’s cats and circus animal performers. Their parents didn’t go mad, though. Sometimes it even seemed like they cared about their kids.

Since being in Auradon, he’s started to be mad about his mom. Before, he tried not to compare.

He also sees faces that remain expressionless. Like Yzla, sitting stone-faced at the side of a bony frame now covered head-to-toe by a grimy blanket, and he’d feel sadder for her very recent loss if Yzma hadn’t bluntly favored her son. Harriet’s there, too, standing at the foot of her father’s patch of concrete, silent and watching her brother from the corner of her eye. Uma’s casual about not standing in her line of sight.

Gil’s sitting up, Carlos notes, and while injured, is conscious and eating. That wasn’t the case last night. No wonder Uma’s fight with Mal was so brief.

On the opposite side of the room, Freddie is swathed in shadows as she bends over a pale, thin figure. From the jagged cut of her hair, it must be Claudine. If Mal’s right about the magic, then that’s one patient they won’t need to do much for—if they are even allowed close.

From the far end of the garage, a small figure comes darting down the center. Her hair’s still bright, her dress still gaudy, even with the weight of ash and dirt clinging to her skin. Dizzy Tremaine reaches out with both hands to catch on Carlos and Janet’s sleeves, exclaiming, “Oh, you’re here! You came back.”

“And brought more helpers along,” Janet replies, voice soothing and gentle. “Just as promised.”

Dizzy’s eyes are big enough and wet enough to shimmer even in the dim light. “We lost a few more last night, but now that you’re here, maybe we won’t lost any more!” She releases Carlos but clings to Janet, turning to look up at the new faces that peer down at her with budding affection. “Who’s your crew?”

The listening-in aren’t subtle.

His allies surprise him when their eyes flicker to his face, seeking permission. Following his lead. They’ve picked up on the unspoken rules quickly—impressive. Carlos crosses his arms, speaking for them. “Felix, Nakul, and Lonnie. They’ve all gone through basic medical training. Felix knows even more.”

Their eyes meet. In his calm, steady way, Felix adds, “My mother has me do independent studies. She’s big on learning new things. I could pass exams to be a doctor, pretty soon.”

“A real doctor,” Dizzy breathed, her eyes round in hope. She turned back to Carlos quickly, eyes narrowing. “How much?”

“Mal will name the price.” He met her eyes squarely. “Later.”

Listeners nudge each other, lips pressed tightly, nodding and shrugging. Considering the offer. Refusing to name the price for this aid is underhanded, but if it didn’t seem like a trap… Well, why send Carlos? That’s always been their way. When sending the weakest-seeming member of the gang to make an offer, then the offer is a poison with no antidote.

The Auradon teens don’t say anything, but Lonnie can’t hide the unhappy twist between her eyebrows. She’s the daughter of two warriors renowned for their honor and courage—she doesn’t like tricks. But she’s whip-smart and they all know better than to undermine him in public. They’ve seen his act enough over the past few days.

(It’s not an act. It’s the old version of him.)

(The real him?)

Dizzy says, “We’ll pay it.”

Carlos nods once. Only then does Nakul bend slightly and smile down at Dizzy. “Show us who to start with, and where to put our supplies.” He shrugs one shoulder, over which the stuffed-full pack is nearly bursting at the seams with cloth and bottles of more-or-less-clean water.

She leads them away. Carlos drifts back into the shadows by the entrance, watching.

That’s where he stands for a long time. He keeps his eyes flickering between his allies, witness to their influence. Nakul’s infectious personality puts a number of their toughest cases at ease, Lonnie and Janet’s steady hands clean burn wounds with only minor snarling from their patients, and Felix’s perpetually laughing face is lined with respectful grief as he examines those closest to death’s door.

Promising to keep them safe meant keeping eyes on them at all times. This means he’s not the only one noticing just how expertly they wield care and compassion, weapons to disarm and engage. It’s intriguing—and distracts him from worrying about Mal and Ben.

He flicks his eyes away from the Auradon teens only for moments. Just enough to notice the moment Freddie leaves through her shadows and reappears after Janet has checked on Claudine. To notice the patients have settled down in their wake, disbelief and confusion where suspicion and wariness had masked their pain. To spy Gaelle perched above and unseen by her youngest sibling.

(The twins are in Auradon. Gaelle probably knows that, too.)

(Gil probably doesn’t.)

Then, as if in response to his thoughts, the youngest Gaston stretches, stands, and bats his captain away. Gil walks gingerly yet with intent. Suspicious, Carlos casually goes back to monitoring his allies where they circulate among the injured.

An incongruously perky voice, slightly smoke-rough yet recognizably clear, eventually sounds at Carlos’ side. “They know stuff,” Gil prattles. “Did you know there was so much to know? Or is that, like, new to you, too? Even though you’ve been over there and saw all the cool stuff they have up close—ooh! Did you ever get your hands on one of those computers like you’d always mess around with here? Except, one that works?”

A small smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah, Gil. I did. It was awesome.”

“That’s so cool!” The boy beside him smiles, effervescent in his happiness, unable to contain himself. Like a toddler: enthusiastic in every feeling, and not knowing how or why to shield himself from the Isle.

Does it say something, about their frantic displays of attempted evil, that Isle kids would rarely go after this boy? It’s not that he’s stronger than them, or even that once Harry and Uma claimed him, they would back him up in any fight. No, even his older brothers wouldn’t go out of their way to torment him—and they were the sort who never thought twice about smacking working girls in the Tremaine house, the sort Anthony tossed out and banned from coming back.

There’s something about Gil that made the Isle youth just not want to go after him. Maybe it’s that childish delight. None of them can remember ever having felt that, themselves. To destroy it would be too much like losing.

Gil asks, “Do you think they can fix Harry?”

Carlos looks at him, long enough to see that brightness fade into a confused frown. Long enough to notice that Uma’s eyes, while cutting in his direction often, stay on their motionless companion just as intently as she watches Gil.

That’s when suspicion turns into understanding.

He doesn’t do anything with the realization except tuck it back into the un-thought space. “They’ll try. He’s strong, you know. And he’s a fighter.”

“But Uma said it’s not like in a real fight,” Gil replies, the corners of his mouth turning down. “When I asked before, because he’s not moving, you know. Or waking up.”

Carlos breathes deeply, through parted lips because of the rancid garage. “Any kind of fight, no matter whether it’s with fists or all in his head---you think Harry can win?”

“Well, yeah! He’s Harry!”

“Then, he’ll wake up.”

A promise goes unmade, and Gil retreats without the assurance Uma must have sent him for—because if she really didn’t want Gil coming over here, she’d have sat on him. And he’d have let her, even though he can bench-press her weight.

The quick dart of her eyes and slump of her shoulders proves it.

But he won’t place Felix in that kind of danger, especially when he doesn’t know exactly which patient he gets closer to with each step down the life-threatening injuries row. Their pseudo-doctor, despite his claim, is not fully trained, and does not have all the medicines and supplies he must need, and besides. He can’t perform miracles.

At least Uma’s not gearing up for betrayal. Yet. Mal’s going to have to know as soon as they get back.

:: :: ::

“So, that’s your school.”

She doesn’t reply right away. Her eyes actively scan with every step they take, nose flaring to take in all the rot and ears catching the faintest rustle of weeds. The gray-stone tomb, repurposed and extended, rests heavily in her view. It probably deserves some form of discussion with the would-be-king, but words sit like boulders on her tongue.

A lot of memories sprang up near the school. Moments, disconnected: girls cowering against walls as she passed, eyes down-turned after she won another knife fight; the scent of blood on her fingertips and grimy water stinging her bruised knuckles; a thief’s flashing eyes as he tossed her part of the haul, a half-smirking inventor with his newest invention, and long blue hair whipping around a corner in pursuit of prey.

They’d ruled these streets. (Is she still proud of that?)

Ben’s accepted so much about her, what she’s told him and he must have guessed from her slips and miscalculations. But he has to have a limit. Just because they haven’t crossed it yet… (Hope’s too fragile.)

So she says, “Yen Sid spent most of his time there. I don’t actually remember seeing him anywhere else.”

“He was always solitary,” Ben replies, eyes turning from the rough stone of the building to scan the area. “This clearly isn’t the most crowded area on the Isle…and down the cliff, there are more caves, right?”

Her head tilts to the side, watching him more fully now as he seems to search the area just like she did. Spinning slowly on his heel, he takes it all in—a part of her crosses her arms defensively. The rest of her expertly shoves the discomfort aside, intent on understanding the situation. “What are you looking for?”

“Clues.” When her raised eyebrow meets his distracted expression, he blinks twice and a grimace flashes across his face. “About the reports.”

Reports.

(Her wrath is carefully held in check, for now.)

It’s exactly what had her on edge, too—the uncertainty behind Yen Sid’s motivations, not knowing why he hid the existence of the Isle children. Now that she knows about this subterfuge, she wants answers. Whether blackmailed, threatened, enchanted, or something else, Yen Sid can do more than help with Mal’s missing magic and the wand.

She needs him to explain why the kids on the Isle were on this damn island all their lives—and who’s behind it.

Because it can’t be the old man who, wise and reserved, never taunted or prodded or tested them. Because the old man had a, retrospectively, _kind_ gleam to his eyes, hidden by a firm expression and cold demeanor. She’s wracked her brain, trying to recall a time he’s ever acted like the other adults on the Isle, and while he was no Auradon role model, neither did he blend in as a villain. Not entirely.

They all thought of him as detached and distant. And, with the way so many of their parents behaved, that made him neutral ground—the closest thing to safe on the Isle. He wasn’t sought out by the gangs, but neither did they keep clear of him. He wasn’t a mastermind, manipulating their alliances, and he wasn’t taking advantage of their wildness.

So, whether on the Isle or in Auradon, someone else was playing a long game.

And Ben had stopped them.

She inches closer to Ben at the reminder, turning her body just enough to cover a different angle. “The caves are down that way. A bunch of dead ends, perfect for an ambush if you can lure anyone stupid enough in.”

“How much do you trust Ginny’s report?”

“Enough,” she replies, meeting Ben’s eyes. “Do you think we should be suspicious?”

His rueful, lopsided grin makes her feel more confident. “Shouldn’t that be my line?”

Shaking her head, she reaches out and their fingers twine together. “Why do you think she might be wrong?”

“Well…besides the total silence and emptiness?” He jerks a thumb behind his shoulder, back at the school. “There’s a faint light in there. I wouldn’t have seen it with normal eyes, but I’m pretty sure my vision’s a little skewed because of my dad. I can always tell if a light’s on in the dark.”

Impressed, she raises one eyebrow. “Well. That’s a handy little trick.”

“Gotta have some if I’m going to keep up with you, right?” She squeezes his hand sharply as they turn, casual as could be, toward the entrance to Dragon Hall.

Sure enough, when they’re inside and completely surrounded by the darkness, a faint light starts to glow brighter ahead of them. They’re deep in Dragon Hall when the first lit lamp starts leading them toward the headmaster’s office, and she mutters it in an undertone to Ben. Synchronicity guides their movements, from grasping swords to Ben falling in step just behind her as she takes the lead. The truest danger could ambush them from behind, and having her familiar, threatening face be seen first might just give them an advantage.

The headmaster’s door is open.

They approach on soft feet, but an old, creaking voice still calls out to them before they get close enough to touch the door. “Mal. You’ve returned. And King Ben—welcome to the further reaches of your kingdom. I’ve been expecting you.” She nudges the door open with her palm, sword angled low.

Sitting casually behind the headmaster’s desk is the sorcerer, draped in his heavy purple robes slightly moth-bitten at the hems. His long silver-streaked dark hair tied neatly back, as always. The usually unruly beard is, however, tamed into a point. And when their eyes meet, Mal can see dark smudges and deep lines around his eyes.

Yen Sid sets down a pen on a thick stack of papers. A teapot bubbles quietly at his elbow. With the wave of one hand, the teapot trembles, hovers, and begins to pour two new cups. A third jumps into his hand as he reaches for it.

Mal blinks. Casual magic, wordless, for such a mundane task…

He’s powerful.

Dangerously.

Ben’s shoulder comes in line with hers, just inside the doorway. “This isn’t exactly the hiding place we thought we’d find you in.”

“No, I suppose not,” Yen Sid replies, a glimmer of kindness in the quirk of his lips. “I did venture into the catacombs below for a short time, but I’ve been here long enough to have worked out a few safety measures. And, with magic returned to this island, I could activate a few other safeguards I’d set up just in case.”

“Just in case the barrier fell?” Ben asks, a hard line appearing on his forehead. Mal steps closer to him, just enough to look solid and unified. Backing him up.

Yen Sid nods once, a cautious movement, one heavy with sadness. “With how intent every villain on this Isle was at escape plans, it seemed prudent to be prepared. Indeed, I even overheard such a warning through the clairvoyant-inclined. There’s only so much magic that came through when young Carlos’ device poked a hole in the barrier, but enough of it jumpstarted latent abilities in a number of the youth.” He nods to Mal. “Your ally Uri is, indeed, quite powerful.”

“What did he tell you?” she asks, carefully easing her way further into the room.

“Nothing I had not already foreseen myself,” he replies, gesturing the two freshly-poured teacups to perch at the top of the desk. “Two decades ago, just as the barrier began to take shape in the royal council chambers. It’s what made me volunteer for this post.”

A sharp, icy prickle eases up the back of Mal’s neck. She exchanges a glance with Ben, who presses on into the room, settling his sword back in a makeshift belt-loop sheath. “You had a vision of the future. That’s—”

“Improbable magic? Indeed.” Yen Sid shakes his head, lifting his cup to his lips and taking a deep drink. “And, predictably, almost unintelligible. The only clarity I could draw out of it was that I needed to be here on the Isle. And to stay here.” He sighs. “So, when my first missive about the children being born was returned with a threat to remove me from my post, I knew I had to do whatever it took to stay and sneak out whatever little information that I could.” The words come with a rushed weight and urgency, like they’d been waiting years to be told.

Mal’s eyes flicker to Ben. “That returned report,” he asks, voice shaking from the strain of reigning in temper and emotion, “do you know who sent it?”

“Alas, that has remained unanswered all these years.” Yen Sid takes a deep sip from his cup. “I tried to send other messages, but I was limited by my uncertainty of whom to trust on the outside… Nearly fifteen years ago, I sent a letter to my beloved daughter in our secret code. It was returned to me, with a second warning and a reminder that though she was grown, I couldn’t protect her from the Isle. That’s the last time I tried, outside of the small details I could hide in the last pages of the reports.”

Mal turns away from him. Disappointment bitterly flows across her tongue, and she bites it to keep from spewing out anything that would stop him from continuing to help them.

(Damn him, for caring more about one daughter when there were so many more of them here on the Isle—

Damn the villain that kept him silent—

Damn the heroes for not paying attention to their own damn paperwork—)

“So. They were in Auradon.” Bewilderingly flat, Ben’s voice shakes her out of her own head. Her head snaps around, cataloguing in an instant the clench of his hands and the rigid line of his jaw, and she realizes—

The reports were _returned_. Someone _outside_ the barrier.

Not a villain. (Not one on the Isle, at least.)

Her thoughts want to skitter over the conclusion, but her twisting stomach grounds her in the reality. Tension is etched into every muscle of the king’s body, in the iron of his eyes. She reaches for him and clasps his shoulder.

Yen Sid’s eyes flicker, scrutinizing their united displeasure, and he sighs heavily. “Drink your tea,” he says, reaching into the drawer of his desk. “You need to keep your strength up. There’s lots more to do, if you’re going to take back the kingdoms from Maleficent.”

And, without fanfare, he places a shining white wand on the desk between them.

:: :: ::

Ben has never experienced betrayal. Knowing, logically, that it was a strong possibility, hadn’t prepared him for this to be reality.

There was never a clear-cut, formal investigation of the situation once it came to light. It began in the royal house and spread over the kingdoms, as far as Arendelle and Queen Elsa to the north and deep into the pridelands ruled by the lions.

Even Mount Olympus had sent a representative: Ananke, goddess of necessity and destiny, stepped briefly into mortal affairs to state that all fates flowed without disruption. For some reason, this was reassuring to the council. Ben thought differently.

If this was fate, well, then he’d prefer to make his own. Change it.

As a ruler, he can’t afford to do anything less than face this truth with open eyes. He swallows a bruised ego and new uncertainty, reminding himself that a traitor would eventually stumble over their own tricks and traps. He will figure out who has done this—as soon as the kingdom is retaken…

(Gods and goddesses. His kingdom. His people.)

This is yet another addition to the list of royal responsibilities after retaking the kingdoms. Other tasks include: rebuilding, negotiating new treaties, and planning for new former-Isle youth to receive their promised recompense. Assuming that his allies won’t turn on him. Assuming success. Assuming—

Yen Sid’s production of the wand shakes him right out of the looming political nightmare.

He gapes at the shining white instrument, suddenly finding it difficult not to believe in pre-laid paths and spun webs. Mal, just as astounded as him, breathes, “Where did you find it?”

The old sorcerer hums for a moment. “I watched the broadcast of the coronation, and that flare of magic which took the wand from your hand. I bet, if you were to think about it, you’d understand already exactly where I found the wand.”

“Think about it? I have thought about it!” Mal growls, her eyes flashing green. “I thought about it every second she had me in a cell—”

She cuts herself off: Ben can still anticipate the rest. He can, and too often has, pictured this beautiful young woman, imprisoned and trying to hold herself together. There will never be a time when thinking about it won’t make him furious. And that, in turn, uproots a disquieting growl in the back of his mind—one he has to shut out. He holds himself with the firmer-than-ever restraint he’s practiced for the past nine days.

(Maleficent must pay— No. Justice, not revenge.)

Yen Sid nods slowly. “And when it was still in your hand, as you fought? Was there a moment, in the middle of that fight, where you began to wish for something?”

Mal hesitates, even as her lips part again.

He nods. “A wish that you didn’t recognize immediately, but one that came straight from your heart? Something you wanted so much that it was only a feeling, a desire, in your mind? You didn’t need to name it, but you knew it inside.”

“Home,” she murmurs.

 _Oh,_ Ben thinks.

Yen Sid nods. “The wand was in your mother’s fortress. I took it rather than let it remain unguarded.” One hand gestures towards it. “Now, I highly suspect that hiding out on this Island for the rest of your life is not your chosen course of action. You’ll need this to fight.”

She shakes her head slowly, disbelievingly. “No. No, you can do it—you can help us. You have to use it.” Ben frowns, not having anticipated this—wasn’t retrieving the wand a part of their mission when seeking Yen Sid? Wasn’t it part of their hope, to get back a weapon her mother wanted so badly? But Mal’s green eyes glisten softly in the dim light as she looks across the table at the sorcerer. “I can’t.”

“Why ever not?”

“Besides the fact that I’m not nearly as powerful as you?” Mal takes a silent, deep breath. “Maleficent took my magic from me.”

Her shame seeps into the air following those words. He laces their fingers together, low in their laps and out of sight. She would pull away if their hands were in full view. And, from the way she squeezes tight enough to hurt, she needs the support.

The worst moments of his coronation all feature her fight with her mother: when she took green lightning in the back to protect him, when she was dragged by the arms down the length of the hall by materialized guards, when her mother’s blow sent her tumbling to the floor. But while taking a curse meant for him was the stuff of his guilt-ridden nightmares in that dungeon cell, the second most-common nightmare was when her mother intentionally cast a curse that sent Mal screaming and seizing.

His frozen body could still feel the clawed fingernails of her mother’s hand on his cheek and the warmth of the fire she’d cast. And the tears that coursed down his cheeks as pale lilac mist ripped out of her, drawn into the emerald glow of that staff.

She slips, sometimes, and says Mother. The fact that she makes an effort not to is telling. The fact that it is getting easier for her is telling, too.

He will never do her the disservice of forgetting her past or forgetting the trials that shaped her, but he’ll follow her lead and refrain from referring to the woman as her blood relation at all.

Ben clasps her hand harder, waiting out her prideful chin tilt and Yen Sid’s sharp gaze.

The sorcerer finally says, “I have my own wand, which makes this tool uniquely unsuitable to me. But Mal, think carefully now. Can you still feel the tingle of magic all about you?” She opens her mouth with a huff and he raises one hand. “Just let yourself feel for it, again. You’ve been trying not to, haven’t you?” Her mouth closes.

Then her eyelids lower, only partially, not entirely trusting. Her hand around his suddenly slackens, and he knows it before her eyes fly open in shock.

Yen Sid nods firmly. “You’re part fae. Maleficent can’t change your heritage. She could only take what innate magic you had stored within you—but there’s magic in the very air we breathe, the water we drink, the earth under our feet. Magic is still a part of you. You’re regaining it all on your own.”

“But it’s not growing fast enough,” Mal says, brow pinched. She slips her hand from his grip and looks at both of her palms. Ben watches the curl of her fingers just as intently. “I won’t have enough power to face her down for months, if this is how long it’ll take to come back.”

“The Fairy Godmother’s wand is merely a conductor of magic,” Yen Sid replies, a faint smile on his lips. “And light magic would never be able to let the imbalance within you stand, especially not when it’s already accepted you as a wielder.”

“How do you know she was accepted?” Ben asks, hope rising in his chest.

“She could hold it comfortably. The wand could tell her intentions were not to cause destruction,” Yen Sid explains, his eyes focused mostly on Mal. “If she had grasped it with selfish intent in her heart, well…that’s what young Jane did, and you saw what happened then.”

Ben scans Mal’s face, seeing no surprise there, and realizes that she had known why Jane was unable to hold the wand. But he wonders if she realizes the rest of it. Mal had said that the moment her mother only disparaged love was when she knew she couldn’t hand over the wand. Yet, from the moment she touched it, the wand never revolted in her hand.

(If only he’d known this, then. They might not have wasted precious minutes being afraid of Mal’s intent.)

“So…I touch it, and my magic comes back?” Mal asks softly. The sorcerer nods.

She looks at him, next, almost afraid, and Ben offers her an encouraging smile. “No harm in trying.” Her lips twitch upwards in response and she reaches.

The wand shimmers in her hand, like it’s giving off heat. She freezes, arm outstretched, expression open and awed. A small tornado, fast and brief, swirls around her, tossing her hair upwards and forcing her eyes closed. From under the closed lids, green flares.

Ben remains completely still, consciously fighting to jolt back at the surge of power that prickles across his skin. He refuses to let Mal sense him flinch from her. She has to know he trusts her, not wonder if his reaction at the sensation was actually fear. All he really feels is surprise at the liquid heat of magic so close to his skin. He’s never felt anything like it before—it’s intoxicating.

Yen Sid leans back, blinking rapidly, and murmurs, “You’ve inherited great abilities.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” she snaps, eyes darting open. She shakes her head once, as if disoriented. “Seeing as she’s stronger than me.”

“Except, you challenged her and held your ground until she cheated,” Ben counters firmly. “Remember—you don’t have to face her alone.”

“As a matter of fact, you shouldn’t,” Yen Sid adds. “Dragon-fae are more powerful in dragon form, but if you aren’t in the air when you meet, you’re unevenly matched.”

“In the air?” Ben says, at the same time as Mal. They stare at the sorcerer, who looks like he’s finally reached a point of exasperation with constantly answering their questions like a walking encyclopedia.

“Surely you recall that Maleficent’s final defeat came when she was in the form of—”

“Yes, dragon, right,” Mal cuts him off. “You mean _I_ can become a dragon?”

His eyes darken with sudden sadness. “I assume so. You should have learned as you grew up. That’s how dragon-fae usually live their earliest years—as dragons. There’s no reason to think you can’t become one.”

Mal sits back, shrugs, and mutters, “At least I didn’t know what I was missing.”

 _Not like Uri,_ Ben thinks.

The sorcerer takes a final deep sip of his teacup and releases it, letting the cup float jauntily along to the corner of the desk. “Well now, I think I’ve answered almost all the questions you could pose of me, including some you didn’t know to ask.”

“Yes, except this,” Ben responds, taking lead. “Why did you go into hiding here on the Isle, instead of returning to Auradon to help?”

“To help.” Yen Sid sighs. “I thought it best to prioritize my duties here, and then to guard those still surviving here. Now that you’re back, that’s one duty taken care of,” he says, gesturing to Mal and her firm grip on the wand.

“What’s your plan?” Ben asks, already mentally calculating which of his classmates might be able to help Yen Sid. “And how much aid can you lend us?”

The old sorcerer smiles, a grim gleam to his eyes. “My purpose and my post are the most important. I’m afraid I will not be of much aid to your battle, my king.”

“You can’t help us fight?” Mal’s tone is far from Council-chamber calm—but then, he’s seen how Isle negotiations go. 

Mal might be acting general to his king in this territory, the local who knows best how to make alliances happen. He has had to overlook his discomfort with Isle tactics, observe when she’s showing him how it’s done—and this time, she’s the one who’s learning a new way. Yen Sid’s not hers, and in Auradon, they use their words.

He extends a hand to her unobtrusively and stares down this longtime advisor in matters on the Isle. “Then what aid can you give us?”

 “I can tell you that the caves were sealed off by the barrier when the Isle was created. They are not, in fact, caves at all. They are tunnels, that by nature linked this island to the mainland long ago. They cross under the bay and into the city, coming up just outside the city walls.”

Well.

That is…not expected.

He probably should know those details about his own country, his own city, but right now, he’s just desperately glad that there’s an adult around who knows things that the rest of them would never have guessed.

Mal says, flatly, “And are these tunnels connecting us to Auradon still open, right now?”

Alarm jolts down his spine until Yen Sid shakes his head. “Leaving them open was risky, even though to the best of my knowledge, no one knew about them.”

“Why did they keep these tunnels after the Isle of the Lost was created?” Mal asks, frowning suspiciously. “Why not cause a cave-in and make sure no one could ever used them to escape?”

“Any magic-user could remove the blockage,” Yen Sid replies. “Which is what I did, in fact, do. I could not leave them undisturbed because under the cave-in, there were artifacts too dangerous to keep in any museum.”

“Like what?” Ben asks, sharper than intended.

“The true talismans of many villains were buried there, out of reach to anyone who might have wanted to use them. Four in particular awoke when Maleficent escaped—those of your friends’ parents, and your own mother.”

Ben lowers his forehead to his hand. Rubs his temples. Breathes in deeply, sighs out, and when he straightens back up, Mal looks amused and Yen Sid looks gravely bemused. “Just so we’re clear…you did prevent all of those talismans from falling into any villain’s hands, right?”

The sorcerer scowls. “Hence, going into hiding,” he sniffs, gesturing sharply for another cup of tea to pour itself.

“Good.” Feeling like a less miserable failure of a king, Ben adds, “And they won’t be found and used?”

“Not unless they remove me from my post on the Isle—which, to get back to your original question, is why I cannot aid you in your battles. My magic can only work to a certain radius before they would be uncovered.” An apologetic gentleness has snuck into Yen Sid’s voice.

The sorcerer’s role has always been as a watcher and a guardian. He is needed to maintain what little advantage they had left, not battle on the front lines. No—it’s those Ben’s own age who have to go to war, and the thought still feels jagged and bitter in his brain.

“These talismans,” Mal asks slowly. “What’s the chance that we could use them to gain the upper hand?”

Now there’s a thought—use their weapons against them. Could it work to gain them a stronger standing against the villains? (Or would it using dark magic turn them to darker ends?)

The sorcerer meets Mal’s eyes squarely. “Should you prove master of the artifacts, then it may be possible, with restraint and balance. But should they overcome you, then you’ll be consumed the way your mother’s staff attempted to warp and darken your heart at the coronation.”

What.

“What?” he asks.

Mal winces and suddenly, the memory of black shadows wrapping and darkening her lavender dress is no longer the near-victory he’d thought. “Did you know that was happening?” he demands.

Her eyes flicker and darken. “Not really, at the time,” she says, thin lines deepening around her mouth. “But…I almost didn’t remember you in time to jump in front of mother’s spell.” And there it is—a source of that inexplicable guilt. (Finally—figured out.)

“Okay,” he says, taking her free hand in his again. “So, when we face her, you’re not challenging her for the staff again.”

She laughs breathlessly. “Nah, I wasn’t fond of it, either.”

“And if that’s the risk of these artifacts—”

Their eyes meet. “But if it gives us more power…”

“Not at the risk of losing you like that,” Ben argues. “We have the magic wand. That’s enough.” (It had to be.)

Yen Sid leans back in his chair, grasping his second cup of tea. “Your battle will go best if your allies believe in what you can do together,” he tells them, holding Ben’s gaze intently. “Gaining their trust will not be easy. They are far more used to intimidation.”

“We’ll do what we have to,” Ben replies. He feels like he’s being compared—to his father, to the other kings and princes. It’s not unfamiliar, not enough to shake him, but it is enough to make him wonder. Does he truly know what he’s doing? “I don’t intend to go back on my promises.

“A king makes many promises. Not all of them are ones he can keep.” Yen Sid’s eyes flash over his teacup. “Do not mistake your desires for your duty.”

(The growling in the back of his head increases before it subsides.) 

Those cryptic words are the last bit of advice he deigns to give them. Mal leads the way back out of her school, and as Ben follows at her heels, he tries to convince himself that his kingdom won’t be entirely shattered before he can save it.


	9. part 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diverging from Disney Wikia and book information about the talismans. I saw potential for ways for them to work in conjunction with other magical artifacts and magical laws that I’ve been operating with here.
> 
> Playlist songs for this chapter: “Hope in Our Midst” by Jonathan Maiocco.

Pretty, petty words have never been Audrey’s greatest weapon, though they help retain her status as the young daughter of a damaged princess.

There’s a reason her grandmother is closer to Audrey’s side at royal events. The Dowager Queen Leah, raised in a castle with a ladies’ arts and proper etiquette, expects much from her granddaughter—especially since Aurora did not grow up knowing exactly which curtsey to hold or which fork to use at dinner with minor nobility. Teaching child and grandchild at the same time was no easy task for the family matriarch.

Audrey knows the love story, and also knows that hands-on gardening and barefoot dancing would be too much for Grandmother to forgive of her granddaughter. Dowager Queen Leah barely endures in her own child, relationship strained into increasingly thin threads.

Aurora is as strange as a number of princesses—Ella, Tiana, and Merida among them—but just like those women, her mother’s oddness is not mentioned in polite conversation.

Always, Auradon youth overcome their parents’ flaws. (Maybe that’s why they try to make the Isle kids answer for theirs.)

Due to loving her grandmother, and her emulation of perfect princess behavior, Audrey cannot hold a civil conversation with her own mother. She lets one imperious arched eyebrow stop her from going out to the rosebushes half-hidden in the back of the castle gardens. She lets her ambition drive her to perkiness and prettiness and an upturned nose. She lets her perfection equate to a prince and her kingdom’s standing.

She’d give anything to try speaking to her mother again. Because that would mean her mother is laughing in the sunlight, her grandmother sitting warm in her sitting room, her father reaching out a hand and twirling her in circles—

But her three loved ones are in a dungeon, and Audrey is in their mortal enemy’s lair. Or—Mal’s home.

It’s easy, now, to see her as another girl, dreaming her own dreams for a better life. That’s not a stretch of the imagination. Not after—

(Glowing evil eyes coming too close before being distracted. Utter immobility and terror. Green lightning. Screams of pain.)

Memory shifted her insides into something new. Mal is a rival, but not an enemy.

Words have never been Audrey’s most powerful weapon: instead, it’s the knowledge behind them. Knowledge cuts down her opponents and keeps her in positions that benefit her standing. Knowledge placed her precarious between her elder generations to keep the peace. Knowledge had her on the defense against possible threats when they stumbled out of a limousine all those weeks ago.

Knowledge is her most powerful weapon, but it’s also turned on her and dissolved many assumptions. However, foundations last, and hers includes the murmured lessons of her grandmother in her ear. Being a princess is more than an inheritance—it is a responsibility to care, to protect that which matters, to always comport herself like royalty.

So, that’s what Audrey did. She cared for Jane. She organized the frightened and fed the weary who needed to rest. Her own drooping shoulders straighten whenever a pair of eyes lands on her back. Someone has to make sure that clothes are handed out, that rations are equal, that everyone eats and sleeps and sits.

Audrey’s not out with the volunteers at the hospital or following her ex-boyfriend and hostess. She’s needed in the kitchen with a threadbare cloth tied as an apron around her waist, smudges of flour on her cheeks, and a bowl full of probably-bread dough at her hip. Jane is placed in a corner where Audrey can keep an eye on her.

Their classmates are in charge of themselves. A few—Aria, and Chad—are listless and uncertain, struggling with whatever demons have arisen in their minds. Knowing fragments of their damage, she keeps an eye on them, too. Some—Ally, Kristian, Alim, Doug, Eileen, and Seth—have been set to tasks, given mending or food preparation or cleaning or exploring the house for other usable items. And the others—Megan, Mervin, Hugh, Phil, and Quinn—have taken it upon themselves to guard, keeping watch from the windows and doors.

Alim takes the bread from her and sniffs the bowl cautiously. “Should be okay,” he murmurs, though the flour might be too old, and with so little salt the bread may be tasteless or inedible. “Dad said that as long as it bakes, it’ll keep your stomach full.”

He doesn’t explain why his formerly-homeless father would have taught him this (just like she doesn’t mention the childlike mother who taught her to knead). The shadows of their parents are an aching fact.

This is all they will have for the foreseeable future, along with a basket of starting-to-mold fruits and a hard half wheel of cheese. Neither of them will ask Mal or Carlos about the food situation. With the island as it is, getting more might mean stealing from orphans and cast-outs. (No matter how tempting that may be, she won’t be able to justify it to the others.)

From the corner of her eye, Jane shifts in her chair. Audrey pretends not to be watching as the younger girl resettles into stillness. Doug’s set up camp at the table next to her, carrying on a calm monologue that never echoes the distraught lines creasing his forehead.

He’s the only other person who has been able to get Jane to respond.

That morning, Doug set up what was once a science-fair project on the second-floor balcony—a device that, with some mirror fragments and haphazardly-placed bowls, can transform saltwater into drinkable water through evaporation. There is enough weak sunlight to make it work—but a jolt of Jane’s magic speeds up the whole system. She didn’t speak, when she did it, but now when Doug chatters, Jane seems to listen.

A rustle of movement in the hallway heralds the return of the hospital volunteers. They enter the kitchen tired and weary, their eyes dark with the shadows of witnessed pain and suffering. Audrey silently starts dipping and serving from the water bucket into mismatched, dented goblets.

Lonnie takes a long sip, her eyebrows furrowed. Her eyes flicker to Carlos, leaning against the wall in the corner with his chin tipped up and his eyes closed.

Janet leans into Felix’s shoulder as she asks, “When are Mal and Ben supposed to be back?”

Audrey re-fills Nakul’s cup. “Soon. The sun’s almost at the marker.” According to their guards, an angled ray is nearly at Mal’s scuff mark on the ground outside. It can be seen from the balcony.

“If they aren’t back by then, I’ll go search,” Carlos says.

“I’ll go with you,” Lonnie says, and Carlos’ eyes flicker open. Through two of Audrey’s heartbeats, he studies Lonnie, then nods and closes his eyes again. 

Audrey refills the cups once more before handing the emptying bucket to Seth. He takes it wordlessly to the second-floor water system. They’ll have to send out another group to the ocean, soon—the most dangerous part of water-duty. (Probably Chad. He needs to get out of his own head.)

The returned volunteers answer quiet questions about their trip. Morbid curiosity results in some asking who exactly is there, and a need to vent has the answers coming shortly and succinctly in small bursts. There is news of bigger names, such as Hook’s son who opened his eyes just after Nakul cleaned his burns, and lesser-knowns like Hermie Bing, a distraught daughter mourning her father’s passing. Aria smiles upon hearing Morgana, sea-witch sister to Ursula, died during the night.

Alim presses a piece of hot, misshapen, slightly-burnt bread into Audrey’s hand. The beat-up third-hand stove has a fire lit underneath a chipped cooking stone, and he has steadily baked through the conversation.

The fish from Uri makes the rounds with their bread, and food temporarily mutes them. Carlos even opens his eyes. No one complains about the small portions—Alim was right, at least the bread is filling---and that it is all they’ll have to eat today.

Though everyone moaned and groaned for the first few days in the dungeon, Audrey stopped herself a few days in. Nothing would change by it, and the villainous glee on the other side of the bars was enough to make her bite her tongue.

They wanted to see suffering? Well, she’d give them no satisfaction.

Only then did she remember her father’s lessons. Audrey is the face of her own parents’ love story—a proper, pretty, popular lady of the court. Losing that disgraces her family. Even with nothing but the clothes on her body, she would remain a proper princess. Not long after, her peers fell in line.

There is a reason for her popularity—she leads by example. Audrey isn’t the only one who strives for dignity in disrepair; who burns to fight back and reclaim her home; who knows, now, that survival demands constant adaptation. All the same, when Janet crumples to a slouch, head resting on folded arms, Audrey feels the longing to join her in a similarly dejected pose. “What will we do if they won’t fight with us?” Janet asks.

Every one of their heroic parents’ deeds rises like a phantom over their heads. But without better advantages, the power of true love won’t be enough on its own.

“Is running away an option?” Nakul jokes, grimacing at himself even as he says it.

“There’s nowhere else in the world we could run to,” Chad counters grimly.

Aria says, “Not all the kingdoms have fallen.” The redhead’s eyes brighten. “With the sea-witch sisters gone, no one will ever take my grandfather’s—”

“Most of us don’t live under the sea,” Chad snipes, eyes narrowing.

Insulted, Aria pushes harder. “I’m just saying, the merfolk know for certain that they’re safe when the sea-witch’s kin are—”

A gloat. A vicious approval for the fate of an enemy. Audrey cuts her off. “All of the kingdoms are at war, whether on land or sea, and besides—our latest news is outdated. Things might have changed by now.” Ignoring Aria’s crumpled expression, she wipes her fingers on the edge of her torn and ragged apron. “What we really need to ask ourselves is if we are behind our king in his decisions, or not.”

Outbursts of denial and loyalty and fear wash past Audrey without effect.

She seizes the reigns. “Do we, inheritors of our lineage, representatives of our peoples and our countries, those with the authority of our crowns—do follow our high king, or not?”

The formal phrases of ancient oaths, and reflections of their sworn duties, quiet the room. Royalty needs wear no crown to lead.

Her grandmother taught her that. (She shouted it, in one of those fights with her mother over tea-time.) The reminder cuts through the fears and worries. In the end, this isn’t truly open to debate. 

To her surprise, Doug steps up first. “We’re not all royalty,” he says, “but I, for one, don’t need that kind of oath to do what’s right. Auradon is our home. I’ll do anything I can to make sure our home isn’t destroyed—and I won’t abandon our parents and our friends stuck there, either.” His shoulders are squared and firm.

Memories rise in Audrey’s mind: her grandmother no longer able to stand in the cell without assistance; her mother’s youthful face streaked in tears, repeating a soundless “leave” over and over; that awful moment when Evie payed a painful price for their freedom from the cell; Jay’s hand on her shoulder, pushing her along to the escape route; and the last glimpse of her father’s expression, rigid with emotions she had never seen and couldn’t name, as she left them behind.

“My aunt would do the same. We follow the King,” Kristian says. Janet lifts her head from her arms, jaw firming in determination. Nods arise around the room 

Seth is the one to ask, “How will we win, then? We need a plan, with or without the Isle gangs helping us.”

“Then we’ll make one,” Lonnie says, firm. “Until then, we have options—like training ourselves.” At the shock and surprise on a handful of faces in front of her, Lonnie snorts. “Some of us know the basics of weapons already, but the rest of you need to fight, too. We all have to stand strong together, in defense and attack.”

“Attack?” Nakul’s naturally-cheerful expression dims—on him, it’s disorienting. “No—I know, you’re right. It’s just…”

“We’ve never had to face a real fight,” says Hugh, from the back. Beside him, his brother Phil crosses his arms. “Even those of us whose parents taught us. We can help train you,” he says, gesturing with one hand to his brother. “Our dad made sure we knew how, just in case some monster got past him one day.”

“Or we went to war again,” Lonnie adds, almost cheerfully.

Megan and Mervin laugh together—then, as one, give each other exasperated side-eyed glares. Megan’s the one to add, “Or just because me Ma ne’er did like to stay inside.”

“ _Our_ Ma,” Mervin mutters. He dodges her—relatively—gentle punch.

Phil shakes his head. “Anyway,” Hugh continues, “if these gangs join us, we’ll have to get them to train, too. Learn how to work together. And learn from them, too.”

“They fight to kill,” Lonnie points out, raising an eyebrow.

“We might need that,” Phil replies. “A number of the villains are known killers—before the Isle existed, and after the barrier fell. And look at how many tried to kill their children.” A few mouths open, defiant, upset—then soften, and close. “They won’t hesitate because we’re young.”

Nakul shakes his head. “But we don’t have to become the killers—and we can’t make these Isle gangs do the dirty work for us.”

“Not like they’d mind,” Aria mutters. Eileen’s mouth twists, but she doesn’t say anything to her friend.

“Without magic on our side, the villains will win no matter what we plan,” Chad says. His eyes dart to Jane.

No one has tried to make Jane feel guilty or ostracized, but her mistake cost them dearly. Survival is taking precedence over kindness. And Chad’s right: Jane’s magic would be useful—but riddled with guilt, she’ll be no help. Their hopes are with Mal and the powerful, mysterious sorcerer Yen Sid.  

Someone else speaks. Audrey’s no longer listening because Carlos’ casual posture has shifted. He slides closer to the door, tilts his head to the open arch. His eyes snap open. For an instant, suspicious, she holds her breath—

He meets her gaze, a curious sharp glint in them. Apathy transforms into relief. He scans the group, apparently counting. Audrey raises an eyebrow, expectant.

Carlos acknowledges her watching. “Audrey, they’ll be hungry.” Interrupted, the others glance between them in confusion. She reaches for two more dented goblets and the water bucket. When greetings ring out, relief soaking the atmosphere, she looks over her shoulder.

Mal and Ben stand in the arch, side by side. To her practiced eye, Ben is calmer and surer than he’s been in days, jaw loosened from a tight clench—hopeful where before he’d been grimly determined. Audrey can also see a difference in Mal, who stands with her hands on her hips and eyes no longer dull. In fact, her eyes are brighter than their normal green. They sparkle like emeralds, like summer grass after the rain, like forest leaves in afternoon sun. With the memory of a little fae history in her first year of school, Audrey knows what that means.

So do the others. “Your magic,” Kristian exclaims. “You got it back!”

Mal raises one eyebrow. “That was the goal.” Her eyes narrow—the effect is more piercing, now.

“Your eyes are glowing,” Carlos says quietly. Mal glances over at her friend, discomfort crossing her face in a flash. He grins at her. “So, Yen Sid knew some things. How much did you get?”

Her smirk speaks for itself when she pulls a brilliant white wand from behind her back.

Hope.

The cheers and exclamations bring a faint pink flush to her cheeks. Ben steps closer to her, and some likely-teasing comment spoken into her ear draws a smile to her lips. A spark of jealousy fluttering in Audrey’s stomach makes her grab the goblets.

“So, where is Yen Sid?” she asks, handing them each a goblet.

Mal sniffs hers as Ben says, “There’s a lot we need to talk about, including what he will be able to do for us.”

Audrey frowns at that careful side-stepping. “He can’t say it himself?”

He looks caught, sheepish for an instant, and Mal cuts in. “He won’t come here. There’s a reason for him to stay hidden, and no one should know Ben and I found him today.” An imperious eyebrow rises at the questions that get tossed her way, and she adds, “If he’s found, the villains might gain another advantage we cannot afford.”

“You said these gangs are on our side,” Chad accuses. “Now they’d go join up with their parents?”

Mal’s eyes glow impossibly brighter. “That’s not what I said. He’s hiding something the villains want, but their kids didn’t know are real. Talismans.”

Carlos’ head twitches, faintly. Ben avoids Audrey’s eyes as he sips at the water, and her bruised heart returns to its sulk.

“Talismans are…?” Felix asked.

Ben edged closer. “Magical artifacts. Big magic, the kind we don’t learn about in school,” he says, looking down at Mal. “Talismans are the reason the barrier worked. They’re objects imbued with power, basically holding a part of the villain’s abilities. When the barrier was up, it was linked to the talismans and ensured they—and their blood—couldn’t access their powers or cross the barrier without permission.”

She adds, “Even those villains without magical powers still had…traits, or abilities, that defined them and what they did, and were manifested into these talismans.” She shakes her head. “We always thought of them like twisted villain fairytales. Just more of their raving.”

“They were all searching Auradon,” Carlos bites out, “when there was too much resistance. Even Cruella started saying that she needed to regain their full power, and she doesn’t have actual magic. But—”

“They couldn’t find them,” Mal finishes. Their gazes are locked. “They were never kept in Auradon at all.”

“So, they’re not just conquering,” Lonnie murmured.

“And the villains are technically weaker than when our parents faced them,” Quinn adds. “Their only advantage is in working together—but without loyalty holding them together, then their alliance can’t last.” His lips split into a fierce grin. His is not the only grin, Audrey notes, taking back Ben’s empty water goblet. Mal just starts to gulp down her own, her unsettling eyes half-lidded.

“Yen Sid has to keep hiding the talismans,” Ben says, and this time, there is grudging agreement. “But in the meantime, he told us that with the barrier gone, the Isle is connected to the mainland through underground tunnels, close to the city walls.”

A path back that doesn’t involve a disorienting run on a magical bridge? The possibility has excitement ringing off the walls.

“That’s a huge tactical advantage,” Lonnie crows, eyes sparkling. “If we were to attack—”

“And supplies,” Quinn interjects, “maybe if a small group—”

Audrey returns to the water bucket and stove. On two broken plates, she serves the remaining rations—two lumpy circles of bread and the last of the fish.

Behind her, a number of voices rise in a clamor and move out of the kitchen. Debates echo down the hall with details of their wild dreams: using the tunnels to get back to Auradon for more food and medical supplies and clothes, to raid a warehouse for weapons, to sneak back in and attack at dawn….

Big dreams. At least there are level heads in the conversation.

Mal and Carlos linger—the former sliding a chair out from the table, and the latter slowly nibbling at his bread. Clearly, they have words to share—and just as obviously, they’ll never speak a word with her in the room. Cooperation only goes so far: the wounds opened at their introduction, and those on Audrey’s heart, will not allow more.

Her eyes flicker over Jane’s still form. With the two of them here, she can afford a break from supervision.

Audrey of two weeks ago would have been scheming, sneaking, waiting for a chance to run and tell Ben that she was right, right, right about the evil girl he’d invited in—

Audrey of two weeks ago didn’t know what Mal’s voice sounded like when she was sincere, or screaming in pain. Didn’t know how to survive a dungeon and being on the run. Two weeks ago, she hadn’t been quietly working to keep her peers from falling to pieces, unashamedly rolling her sleeves up in the background, and refusing to complain one word more and clinging to the last shreds of royal dignity. Two weeks ago, she didn’t know what evil looked like because she hadn’t seen it peering through the bars in a cell at her while dragging the purple-haired girl by her arms.

(Still, a little jealousy’s only natural.)

She holds out one of the prepared plates. Mal takes it without comment and moves closer to the table. Audrey slides a kitchen knife out of her pocket and grabs one of the mostly-okay apples from the basket. She cuts the apple into quarters, pressing one into Jane’s hands. Audrey takes the second back to place on Ben’s waiting plate, drops the third on the table next to Mal’s, and passes the fourth and final piece to Carlos on her way out of the kitchen.

His hand is stiff when he takes it, but she breezes past without hesitation. Her court face is on, perfected for a many a function—not impolite or unfriendly, but not inviting, and certainly not familiar.

The council room is where she heads, to the action. Inside, she sees that the guard detail has been taken up again by a new rotation of volunteers. Ben takes his plate with a genuine, mildly guilty, smile, and murmurs, “Thanks.”

She says nothing.

Between the breakup at the tourney match and the dramatic Family Day, there had been a private conversation. A crying, raging Audrey and a sad, apologetic Ben, in an empty classroom, screaming, “You didn’t have to humiliate me.”

Pleading, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Snarling, “Then you shouldn’t have done it.”

Whispering, “I will never be able to apologize enough.”

With nothing left to say but, “I thought we were perfect.”

And, “I didn’t see us being forever.”

After the thrown books and shouting, she retreated to Lonnie’s room for a round of therapeutic sobbing into a pillow, chocolate bars, and a pilfered bottle of wine. After that, she’d been honest: Audrey thought they were a perfect picture of appearances and matching status. She never pictured herself at a wedding altar because it would make her happy—she’d pictured the event of the year, fame and prestige, her grandmother’s pleased smile. Her mother’s happy eyes.

The bruises on her heart eased during their captivity, when she was more concerned about her family and her kingdom and her life. A breakup felt so minor in that cold cell, when she was tired, aching, hungry. Shivering and disgusted by the necessity of bodily functions. Worrying about which parent would be dragged away and come back bloody next. Worried that it would be one of her peers, instead. Or her.

Priorities have shifted. For now.

Her world is still flipped upside down. The war council is filled with her peers. She’s living in hostile territory. A failed romance is not on the agenda of concerns until the world returns to proper order. Only then can Audrey be a bruised jealous heart and dented pride.

She leaves the room without drawing more attention. No one follows her out.

:: :: ::

Carlos stands guard, slowly chewing through his slice of apple. While he wouldn’t call the princess’ gesture an act of goodwill, neither does it seem like foul play.

Mal’s in the chair next to Jane, munching on her own slice, not bothered in the least by a little dirt from the table and probably amused by the small pettiness in Audrey’s move. The kitchen is quiet with the others having drifted in enthusiasm for their new plans.

And while they should jump in on that—soon—Jane had purposefully never been left alone before. Mal must have been waiting for a opportunity like their implicit guard duty.

“I need to ask you some questions. You’re the only one around who might be able to answer more than Yen Sid.” Neither of them are surprised at the lack of response. “Do you know much about fae powers? About our… mothers’ magical tools?” A pause. “When releasing you all from that Living Statue spell, Ben thinks m-Maleficent was having trouble with the staff. But I thought my challenge was ended in the hall, when I lost. So I wondered—did your mother ever teach you more than the basics about magical object loyalties?”

Her monologue garners no response in twitch, blink, or breath from her captive audience. Jane’s stillness is uncomfortably familiar, reminiscent of others on the Isle. Others who probably are no longer alive, since they haven’t been spotted and certainly didn’t go to the mainland.

“Okay. No clue, then, huh? Well, what about the magic here, on the Isle? You must sense it, too. I mean, I could feel the magic around us even without having my own inside, and it felt…wild. Almost like a storm. And… My eyes.”

“They’re still glowing,” he says, softly. Confirming for her, reinforcing their alliance.

“That used to only happen when I used magic. Do yours?” A pause. “I’m stronger. Or maybe it’s the magic here. It’s like I have extra batteries and they’re all charging.”

A hoarse, timid voice finally responds. “When the barrier broke, where did all the magic go?” Jane’s voice is flat rather than questioning. “Yen Sid is a sorcerer. He taught himself how to use magic. We were born to it. It can always be found—”

“In the earth, the water, the air,” Mal murmurs.

“The barrier fell, but the power’s still here. Anyone born to magic is soaking it in.”

Mal’s tone turns sharp. “Including you.”

 Jane nods once.

“What will you use it for?” Mal asks, still sharp.

No answer. For long minutes, Carlos remembers Claudine, remembers Gaelle’s mother. Remembers a handful of moments in his own cigarette-scarred, bear-trapped, exhausted childhood, before falling under Jay’s protection. Before Evie and Mal.

Mal’s lips tremble. Her eyebrows lower in determination, like a decision has been made and can’t be undone. “I’m responsible for what Auradon is suffering, not you.”

The doorframe lines his spine, rigid, and he would interrupt her but this…it has to be said.

“I’m the one who, when you told me your insecurities, I…I lied to you. I said magic could solve it all, because back then, I thought it could. I thought it could make m-Maleficent love me. I did not know how to be kind, or how to tell you that there is nothing wrong with the way you look. I didn’t know how to tell you that you didn’t need to change yourself to be happy.”

And broken, sad Jane tilts her head and blinks her hollow eyes. “You didn’t tell me to steal the wand.”

“No. But… I dropped the hint. I thought I’d take advantage of that, if you did, so my m-Maleficent would get what she’d asked for, and she’d finally see that I could be exactly what she wanted me to be,” Mal confesses. She shakes her head. “Except that’s not what happened. So, you see, I manipulated you. I’m responsible for what happened at the coronation.”

Carlos clenches his teeth tightly as Jane blinks again, surfacing more than she has in days. “Mal. You only said that to me once, the first day we met, and—and never again.” Jane sighs. “But others did. Whispers. Every day. Even with the hair you gave me, even with new clothes.” Silent tears roll down her cheeks. “I tried to fix it myself, first.” Mal’s eyes widen. “I’m part fae too—I thought, shouldn’t I also be able to do that spell you used? But my own magic is weak. It wouldn’t work. That’s when I chose to take the wand.”

(Just as suspected.)

“But I—”

Jane shakes her head, the movement jerky. “You’ve been in Auradon just over a month. This started years ago.” Her lips tremble. “This is my fault.”

His shoulders ease: Jane has made one of her best decisions since the wand fiasco. This, he can use, where before had been…concerning. Without him having to say a word, Mal’s guilt is shifted. Her eyes still glow, but now a darkness swirls around those pupils—the glow of a dangerous storm. “Sounds to me like it’s everyone else’s,” she says.

“But I held the wand.”

“Okay. You held the wand.” Mal shrugs, as Jane flinches. “And they said the words. So now what are you going to do?”

To this, Jane seems to have no response: her eyebrows crease, her mouth remains slightly parted, and her hands fidget in her lap. Yet, she’s a step further from being another Claudine, and he feels the aching relief of one small burden.

Approaching footsteps and a scraping chair heralds the end of the conversation. He shifts to allow Audrey in and Mal out without getting caught in their quiet passage. The coldness between them is no more or less frigid than usual: simple discomfort, rather than rage, scorn, or pain.

He follows at Mal’s side into the corridor. She barely glances at him, shoulders brushing comfortably close as they walk. He anticipates an instruction before it leaves her mouth. “If they want to go back for supplies, you’ll have to be the one to go with them.”

“Jay and Evie are fine.” There is no other option.

“We have to know for sure,” she says, voice lowering just enough not to echo. “And if we’re really going to make battle plans, they can be our traitors on the inside.”

He hesitates then. Their feet fall out of sync. “But—”

And even as he says it, ruthless logic rears its head, an instinct that has protected him in all his weakling years.

Mal’s eyes are determined and shadowed, a deep crease between her eyebrows, as she pauses and half-turns back to him. “I want to get them out, too. But maybe they have some ideas for getting the rest of those royals out of their cage, in ways that you and I can’t. Or, if they don’t have a good idea, we can help make a better one possible.”

“It’s not like they’d actually be safer out here,” Carlos admits. He scuffs the toe of his shoe against the ground. “But…we should be together.” Their distance rankles at him, chasing anxious jolts through his nerves and keeping his shoulders tense for a fight.

As he starts walking again, her shoulder bumps into his companionably. “Stop whining. We’ll take our own back soon enough.”

She’s never sounded to confident in these walls. Carlos can’t help the grin that flickers to life, or the heat thrumming through his chest as they reach the loudly-debating Auradon group, as Mal limits enthusiastic plans with a reminder that they are waiting for the alliances to answer their call, and as more Isle protocol has to be explained.

The warmth in his chest never fades. He thinks it feels a lot like rarely-allowed hope.

:: :: ::

The square’s center holds a bonfire, radiating warmth out into the cool night air that caresses Gaelle’s face and attracts the youngest close. They are the first to sip water from the buckets held by helpful Auradonian hands—their eyes narrow, and they suspiciously poke and question, but eventually they drink. And come back for more, bringing others with them.

Closest to Gaelle’s crew, Seth White kneels at the side of a small girl, movements gentle and slow in a way that matches his deep singing. Her crew listens incredulously, even as they inch closer. This, she allows.

In deference to their past inabilities to coexist peacefully, the gangs self-segregate. They are wearier of the past week’s woes than frothing for a fight. A handful of splinters emerge from the shadows, sticking close to rooftops and alleys. Like the others, Gaelle watches their mingling crews to make sure no sparks fly.

Everyone knows what will happen if their unprecedented cooperation breaks—no vengeance, no way out, slow starvation if not death at the hand of another desperate lost soul.

Those who are mobile have gathered—even Gaelle’s brother, across the way, his two constant companions at his side. She watches the Hook boy pretend that Gil isn’t helping hold him upright. She resists the urge to move closer.

(Her baby brother—

No. That right was lost long ago.)

Harriet’s also in her line of sight, feigning interest in Freddie gracefully herding older kids towards the fire. And to her left, Anthony stands in steady wait—she can feel the ever-present current between them. Affection had already worn the boundaries between their gangs long ago—even if the word exists only in her mind, a slender thread connecting them, denied visibility.

(She’d deny it, if asked, but not because she wants to.)

The gathering is an answer, in itself, to the king’s question. Sending out some of their crew to offer water was Mal’s acknowledgement. Now, they wait for Ben’s acceptance.

“Will you be willing?”

Her eyes flicker to Uri, who has ventured away from his perch near his captain. Those silvery eyes meet Gaelle’s. This oldest son on the Isle, always the closest to adult of all their gangs, drew ears to listen even before being exposed to magic. Her attention wavers—no threats incoming—before honing in on this unexpected peek into what might lie ahead.

His hazy gaze is a sea-storm truth: coming and going, the clouds don’t stay in his irises for long.

One hand out beckons him closer, and he steps near enough that no one else will hear his voice. “We can’t have it all, not even the sea. Not the sea at all,” he says, leaning fractionally closer. “Try to hold it, and the shell will break in our hands.”

Her heart skips a beat. _What choice?_ her hands say. _What is lost?_

“Who is more important: him, or him?” he counters. “You can save a beaten heart if a bleeding heart keeps bleeding.”

The words come fervently even as their true meaning remains obscure. Clouds filter away from his eyes—she lets him reach forward, touch the back of her scarred hand with a feathery brush, before he drifts away on whatever tide drew him to her.

Gifted with this puzzle, she pushes it to the back of her mind. Anthony, though he did not overhear the words, meets her gaze from the corner of one narrowed eye. He will draw it from her eventually, highlighting the darker shadows for their deep truths—always, he helps her understand what she never would alone. Even with his help, though, she worries that the vision Uri saw will only make sense as it unravels into the present.

Besides—she is given no more time to wonder, because the king is at the door to the fortress. There’s Mal shadowing his steps, Carlos cutting his own path around the side. They move towards the fires and Gaelle steps forward with the rest of the leaders.

Gangs drift and float, silencing themselves in watchful interest. The time for closed-door leader meetings has ended. A war council is never kept secret from participants.

King Ben shows no hesitation, no fear in twitching hand or darting eye. His gaze does not linger, but those eyes meet each of theirs steadily. On cue, he asks, “Leaders, have you decided?” There is no hesitation in his stance or in Mal’s glowing green gaze.

“The queen has found her wings,” Uri says, hazily, head tilted as though hearing sounds no one else can catch. Though they all hear him, no one responds.

Mal’s magic is clear and strong. Freddie and Cora—their little Princess of Hearts—have to concentrate to draw up her own magical energy, but Mal makes it look effortless. Their ally is ready for a fight: to attack, to defend, to hold her lines and force their peace. Like she’s always done. Like, Gaelle suspects, she always will.

The subtle warning prompts Gaelle to lift her hands in greeting, and then, in declaration. Anthony is their voice.

“We accept your offer. We will fight with you.”

:: :: ::

The Lost Revenge is closer to sea-worthy than it has been in years. Mal stands on the rickety docks, gazing upward, and admits—if only in her own mind—that Lonnie’s plan just might have merit. If Uma’s second-rate ship proves strong enough to bear the waves, and the Jolly Roger is patched enough to hold together by Harriet’s will, then they have a tiny fleet.

Sundown to sunrise, the whole Isle has bustled with activity. From Lonnie, Megan, and Mervin leading practice sparring with their allies—and teaching restraint in the process—to Janet, Felix and Nakul continuing to their support at the hospital, and the rest of the Auradon teens running around helping with whatever they were asked to do by the gangs, no one has slept more than a few hours at a time.

Mal’s surprised at how driven everyone is to work together. Gangs and fugitives alike work side by side on tasks that range from fixing up the two ships before her, to ransacking homes for weapons or creating them from remnants of rubble, and even to developing a rudimentary water and food delivery service. Obviously, some ideas came more from the Isle kids or more from the Auradon kids, but this alliance…is holding.

(When will a collapse come? How badly will it hurt them?)

(Would it collapse?)

Their Auradon peers have been paying attention to her and Carlos. They have watched behavior, manner, and approach, and applied it so that the gangs have responded with wary curiosity and tentative respect rather than laughing dismissal. For example, when Lonnie led training, she neither downplayed the probability of needing to use a killing strike, nor too bluntly emphasized the need to take prisoners. When Janet demanded supplies in the hospital, she said please and then cursed in the next breath. And Megan and Mervin’s interactions were a downplayed version of their previous animosity, expressively closer than most Isle siblings: they had gained a wary, curious number of spying eyes.

And she knew, just knew, that they were doing it on purpose. Showing her, and the Isle teens, that they were doing some things the Auradon way already, while also being living examples of how to do things differently.

(Sneaky manipulators, the lot of them—how fascinating.)

But a few days of posturing will quickly show the cracks as the days pile up. The wheels are turning quickly, now.

She’d feel more comfortable with Carlos nearby, but he’s leading Hugh, Phil, and Quinn off on a raid for supplies through those underground tunnels. At least he’ll see their missing ones soon—she misses Jay like a limb, and Evie like the air, and now she’s missing the spark of life that Carlos always brings.

Ben’s woven into the beat of her heart, so at least she has one piece of herself nearby. At her back, talking to Harriet about logistics of sailing and the bare outline of an attack plan, he also rubs his thumb against the inside of her wrist whenever she feels twitchy at her proximity to Uma’s ship.

The girl in question moves as if everything is fine, even though not ten minutes earlier she was engaged in a shouting match with a weak, shuffling Harry over what constituted as “bed-rest” on her ship. Gil had to physically drag him into the captain’s cabin and lock him in. Gaston’s youngest son is whistling as he works on a net, one of his many oddities that his crew has always accepted.

From the sea, Uri appears, swimming and pulling himself up the side of the pier. He hangs off it by his arms, a few yards down the peer, and grins. Waits. His eyes are clearly on Mal.

Uma’s back is abruptly stiff. She storms about her ship and hammers a few more nails down harder than necessary before storming into her already-occupied cabin and slamming the door. Uri doesn’t flinch and his gaze does not waver.

Mal sighs. She moves her hand from Ben’s grip just as he finishes a sentence and Harriet has nodded her acceptance, and quietly tells both, “Your first mate wants a word. I’ll be right back.”

Harriet smirks. “Leaving your man alone, Mal? You know what they say—pirates keep all the treasures they find, whether it’s guarded or floating free.” While hardly serious, the challenge does include a hand reaching out to caress Ben’s suddenly-stiff shoulder.

Mal smirks back. “Those who are mine know better than to stray or fall into the wrong hands.” Ben’s slightly reddened cheeks are almost worth the jibe.

She saunters down the yard of space separating them from Uri, just far enough that when she drops to one knee and lowers her voice, neither Harriet nor Ben will overhear. She raises an eyebrow as she does, hating that her back is turned to them. Trusting her control over the situation.

“Well?”

Uri’s grin turns soft at the corners. “You found your wings. You know that love is no weakness.”

(Know it? Hardly. Started to consider it? More likely.)

“Yes,” is her answer.

“Then the time has come to pass it along to one who needs more,” he replies. Now there is a distinct sadness in each line of his face, a grief she only sees when he thinks of one person. “I’ve done all I can to help, but without the charm she’ll come to harm.”

“Charm?” Uneasily, she considers whether she can do any sort of magic to protect someone at all. If he’s asking her to help his—

“You wear it,” he says. “For safekeeping, and in case—just in case you did not find your wings. But you have…it’s all coming together…” His eyes are growing distant.

Hardly aware of the action until her fingers brush an object emanating its own magic, Mal looks down. She grips he necklace Uri had given her when they showed up on the Isle. “Wait. This necklace—”

“Safe. You, and now…please.” His eyes clear and he clasps her hand around the charm. “She’d never take it from me. But I…like you, I know. Love is strength.” His eyes flicker with true awareness, so rare. “My sister…she’s all I have left. Please, to keep her safe…?”

(Damnit.)

She nods once. Uri’s weak smile disappears, and then so does he, back into the water below the pier.

Feeling Harriet’s and Ben’s eyes, Mal still makes the choice as she stands. Back to them, she removes the charm. Gil’s still on deck—distracted by his netting, not having paid any attention to her, whereas his captain intentionally made herself ignorant in retreat.

He won’t think to wonder. Mal waits below the board leading up to the Lost Revenge. “Gil!”

He comes instantly, slightly confused gaze and wide grin with each step. Her heels shift as her hand clutches the charm. When he gets close enough to chirp a greeting, she holds out her hand.

“Truce offering. Ursula’s shop was being cleaned out a bit by one of the work crews for weapons, and I sensed this. Small magic, not sure what for, but it’s your captain’s by right of inheritance,” she says, weaving the lie with all the ease of long practice.

Just like that, he accepts without question. “Hey, thanks! Uma will like it!”

Duty done. And only one lie to accomplish it. Somehow, Ben might even understand the necessity of covering up that truth: Auradon is not so squeaky-clean itself, if their future rulers are anything to go by.

Harriet raises an eyebrow when Mal returns, but merely asks Ben if he thinks the navy might be joining the fight on either side—either as taken-over-by-villains ships or actual reinforcements on their side.

Mal eyes Ben, waiting to hear if he’ll follow protocol. Unsurprisingly, he waits until they are on their own, halfway back to the fortress.

“What did he want you to give Gil?” he asks, voice pitched low.

Mal hops over a pile of debris and says, “Something that’s supposed to help protect his sister.”

She waits for more, but feels no surprise when Ben nods in subdued understanding. He is seeing more and more of her world by the day, by the hour, and each time his reactions mirror his good heart.

Every time he peels back another layer to expose the darkest currents that run the Isle and shaped her entire childhood, she wonders if this will be the moment he no longer understands—or no longer tries. He can turn her away or leave her behind, and she hates that she cares deeply enough to be wounded by his judgment.

These are her grimy layers. She is of the Isle and never had a chance to pretend otherwise.

(Could this be the time he reaches his limit?)

When he stops walking next to her, she turns with her eyes darting for the reason. Nothing is in the shadows around them. Out of the dim evening comes his voice, surprising her utterly when he says, “Do you think we can win?”

Tension lines his face. The weariness he keeps from the others and the doubt in the clench of his jaw show that he believes them entirely alone, for once. Another sweep of the alley proves his assumption correct.

Well-versed in the art of lying, Mal nevertheless finds herself hesitating with her lips parted in readiness. The lines around his eyes tell her that to lie would not be a kindness. Cruelty does not sit naturally on her shoulders anymore—so honesty controls her mouth. “I don’t know. It shouldn’t work. We’re just a bunch of kids. We have none of the arms and numbers and years of experience that they do. Our best shot is a haphazard plan that relies on people we don’t really trust yet to do things they can’t guarantee are possible.”

A flicker of uncertainty sharpens in his eyes. “Our parents were in a similar position, the first time.”

“True,” she says. “They didn’t know better, either. And the gangs do know just how bad it can get, yet… they’re working together. Never seen them like this with each other, not with me. Not with outsiders. But you made that happen.”

Eyes locking, even her uncertainty washes away as he reaches out to her.

“My memories of m-Maleficent tell me it’s hopeless... But. You make me believe it’s possible.” She shrugs. Their fingers interlock between them, his larger, smoother hand entangled with her smaller, rougher one. “If nothing else, you taught me that fearing something is no reason not to try.”

“When did I teach you that?”

She smirks. “Okay. You taught Carlos that. I just absorbed it in proximity.”

He laughs, half to himself, half wistfully. “Well, with that vote of confidence…”

She squeezes his hand in hers. “We fight. We do our best. Losing’s not an option, so we’ll win—and take back the kingdoms. Defeat the villains. Save your parents.”

“Get the rest of these kids off the Isle,” he adds. “Rebuild the cities, and the towns. Go back to school.” He says the last with a sly side-eyed glance.

“Oh, joy. More opportunities to ace Remedial Goodness,” Mal says, turning on her heel. She ignores his stifled chuckle. Their hands remain linked as she starts guiding them back to the fortress. She adds, “I do the dirty work, you clean up the messes.”

“You won’t make more work for me, will you?”

“Depends on how clean you need that kingdom of yours.”

With how much has started going their way—returned magic, discovered wand, tunnels and cooperative friends and tentatively-trusting allies—their laughter feels like a surge of fresh air into the musty, cobwebbed spaces in their lives. She’s almost afraid to trust in its existence.

Despite herself, she has hope, because standing at his side demands nothing less.

:: :: ::

On the rooftop above, crouching in silence, out of sight, someone hears.

This listener breathes the night air and thinks. Snorts. Shrugs with no one else to witness. Wonders. Dares to consider—

(Could the gangs…?)

The listener lingers long after Mal and Ben are gone, deciding what to report.


	10. part 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personal bit: I was diagnosed with anemia at the start of the summer. I never realized how much of my fatigue was not due to the daily grind of teaching until starting treatment. Such is #TeacherLife, wherein regular, epic levels of exhaustion result in actual medical issues coming as a surprise.
> 
> Relevant-to-you bit: Evidence of my increased energy is coming out in my writing! I am pleased to report that this chapter is about one-third of what I have written this summer. I’m finally satisfied with what came out here, and so am putting it up while I have the other two chapters going through a revision process. 
> 
> However, I continue to make no guarantee of quick updates once the school year begins anew. Thank you for sticking through the long haul of years that is taking to write this story! I appreciate you so much.
> 
> Playlist songs for this chapter: “Footsteps” by Pop Evil and “Game of Survival” by Ruelle.

“Fine, be that way…Jay, what about you?”

“A magic lamp,” he replies, flippant repetition of a phrase drilled into his bones. There’s only one answer to that question in Jafar’s household, even if they’re not living in a run-down shop anymore. Even if Jafar’s not in the room. 

CJ Hook cackles and Hans II smirks and Clay rolls his eyes. Jay takes a swig of the ale they’d handed him when he stepped into the massive room and rests his shoulder more firmly against the good side of his chair. Auradon ale is weak: none of them feel any sort of buzz. And yet, the room is trashed—all overturned tables and dented walls and broken furniture. The others don’t notice or care.

(If he wants to survive? He needs to stop noticing, too.)

It’s as good a dig as any to leave on, though, and he drops his mostly-empty mug as he stands. It rolls under CJ’s chair as Jay gestures a lazy salute at the three. “Speaking of, better get on that search again.” 

“You must have gone through the whole castle by now,” Hans II said. The too-light tone slowed Jay’s tread. “Will he be sending you out of the castle yet?”

Jay half-turns, just enough to meet icily calculating eyes. “Just might, pretty soon.” 

“Y’may want a partner out there with you,” Clay comments idly, swirling his own drink around in his glass. “Last I heard, the shadow-guards were disappearing often enough in some neighborhoods that _discipline_ was in order.”

That’s their euphemism for storming streets, harassing families in their homes, breaking storefronts and generally being a terror in the town. For the past few days, these unpredictable violent outbursts drove fear into the citizens. It’s all intentional—a day ago, Maleficent thought that enough of it would get her the escapees back.

Now, she’s just lashing out. More villains think their escaped prisoners are outside the city, but they don’t mind heading out into the streets.

Chaos is easy. The markets and businesses are not very crowded, but people need to eat. People were also commanded to return to their jobs. They move quietly and quickly, never staying out past dark. Some stay huddled at home, which is no guarantee of safety. 

Evie is under closer watch: her mother keeps pulling her aside for magic training after dinner. Jafar just wants a lamp, so Jay gets more freedom and goes out. On the rooftops at night, Jay avoids notice and watches where the villains’ path goes.

He tries to warn neighborhoods when he can, in ways that can’t trace back to him—his usual trick being to toss stones at a door or window when he sees the enforcers heading towards a street. This usually gets the bravest ones to open their doors, hear the destruction coming closer, and start warning their neighbors. A rare twice, he shouted a warning down a street, trying not to sound like himself as he does it. But that’s more dangerous.

(It doesn’t seem like enough.)

Their peers don’t know about this, however. All they know is that Jay and Evie haven’t joined them on these escapades—and neither is sure how long that can be avoided. Clay’s the first to bring it up. 

Jay takes the opening. “I wasn’t planning to go alone. Evie hasn’t been out yet, either. Just might have to dish out some of that discipline, ourselves.”

Hans II sneers, “A lady doesn’t need to sully her hands with it. You’d do well to treat her better, Jay.”

Ah, the pretentious dethroned kept their egos. Jay ignores the assumption, choosing instead to subtly flex his arms and reply, “Evie does what she wants—as you well know.”

Hans II’s failed attempts at getting her attention were brief, but no secret to Evie’s gang. And only to her gang, it seems: CJ falls out of her chair laughing, and Clay starts ribbing Hans II, who is conversely pale and glowering.

Blow to the prince’s ego delivered, Jay saunters out of the room before any of them can pry further.

Conversations with their peers are a minefield. While he and Evie ganged up, these lone-wolf types never joined the alliances. They just brought down chaos the few times they had leverage. Being outsiders didn’t prevent them from plucking alliance threads to gain an advantage.

CJ Hook, Mad Maddy, the Gaston twins, Shun Yu, Clay, Hans II… Sometimes they’d partner up on the Isle. Often, they’d wreak havoc on their own or under the direction of their parents. (The chosen few found satisfactory… Pure evil.)

Being traitor to the villain cause is easier—or perhaps, luckier—due to those differences, though. They would have known that a fight in the dungeons between a traitorous Carlos and a loyal Jay should have ended in a draw, not Carlos knocking Jay out and taking off with the prisoners. They’d have noticed that Evie couldn’t have been in the corridor where Jay claimed he found her later. They’d have realized that Jay lied about which direction the escapees went after they passed through the guard room. They would have been suspicious of how long it took Evie to recover.

Memories of council meetings and temporary truces would have undermined Jay’s lies and Evie’s distractions. Their peers might even have guessed that Evie, “unconscious” in the chaos, had activated a scry-blocking spell on their escaping friends.

The deceptions worked because no one knows them well enough.

(He knows Evie well enough, though.)

Jay shakes off both weak ale and uncomfortable thoughts. The corridor might look empty, but nowhere in Auradon is truly safe. At least he’s used to that—the Isle never was, either.

He rounds a corner and sees the cleaning staff.

Every time, he hides his own reaction to the rictus of fear that paralyzes each face that notices him. The handful of servants in the castle are already used to their newest ruler’s whims. Doing the work no villain wants to do earns them nothing, but refusing to work would have earned punishment. Scrubbing floors and fixing rooms tossed about in a villain’s temper tantrum places these people in the line of fire for being treated like the furniture, too.

He hasn’t run into any of these small, terrified crews while with others. Yet.

Hands scrub and bodies shiver as he passes, attempting neither to linger nor to rush. He intentionally steps where someone has clearly just finished cleaning, going out of his way to do so. The boy his age, with unkempt brown hair, glares up at him, nothing but contempt in slate-gray eyes. Jay pretends that his smirk isn’t brittle at the edges.

(Anyone might be watching.)

His back remains stiff as he turns two more corners and climbs a flight of stairs. Windows pass: some with stained glass, many with clear panes, others with shards clinging to frames. No more cleaning crews, though. He breathes a little more easily.

Jay slips into Evie’s room. As expected, she’s alone. He collapses into a puffy chair as she continues dabbing at her cheek with a brush. Her eyes catch his in the mirror for a long moment before she returns her full attention to her task. That tiny pinch between her eyebrows smooths away, as though it was never there at all. Like every other time, he bites down on his own tongue and a pinch of pain keeps his jaw closed against the words he wants to say.

(He knows her well enough to know when she worries.)

A pause slightly longer on his part, and—there. She smiles at herself in the mirror. “I thought you’d be busy longer.”

“I thought we were meeting downstairs,” he shoots back. “And yet, here you are, on your second re-do today. Are you ever going to be satisfied?”

“Perfection takes work.” She sits back in her chair, tilting her chin at ten different angles. “And it’s not a re-do. It’s called re-application, and it is necessary. Surely you don’t mind waiting for a lady to look her best?”

“I’d prefer this lady not make us late to lunch. We still have to hit the streets after we eat,” he says, crossing his arms and slumping in a manner that should appear appropriately sulky. A brief silence grows: there’s a reason he came, and it’ll have to be in code since she has not wanted to risk her privacy bubble spell for days. His smirk, a second-nature mask, easily rolls along his lips despite his posture. “Jafar wants me to look in a few more shops. He’ll never be satisfied without that royal treasure. How many do you think we can squeeze in?”

Her eyes narrow in the mirror. “At least one. Would he be satisfied with that?”

Executions start the day after tomorrow, and she still only has one idea. “I’m not sure how he’d feel about your plan.”

“Well,” she says, flashing a bright, showy smile over her shoulder. “It’s the only one we’ve got!”

True. He hadn’t come up with a better one, yet. Not for lack of trying—at least, not on his part.

Jay arches an eyebrow even as he pretends to watch the curtains float in the breeze from her open window. From the corner of one eye, Jay watches Evie’s hand swishing a makeup brush on a cleaning mat, back and forth, back and forth…

(He knows her well enough to know when she lies.)

Choices. He could keep his knowledge to himself, undermine her glorious little scheme later and… somehow… But that’s where he gets stuck, because he can’t think of a better way to get the Auradon royals out of their cell.

So, really, his only choice is to grit his teeth and comment, “Well, at least it’ll be safe enough, wandering the streets.”

“Oh?” she hums, distracted with a tube of lipstick.

“Yeah. After all, the others are all distracted by shiny things or throwing their weight around in town. And our parents aren’t freaking out, at least now that there’s no chance of the rest of the prisoners escaping.”

This slows her hand. She lifts the color from her lips, pursing them. Slowly, questioningly, she says, “Mother’s certainly pleased about it.”

Her eyes are piercing through the mirror. Jay’s customary smirk stings his lips as he pointedly replies, “I’ll say. It’s great that she found that spell, isn’t it? Makes the job real easy, knowing they can’t get out without help. Just like it says in her book.”

(Evie gave up the secret of her mother’s favorite hiding places long ago, on the Isle. Old habits repeat in Auradon.)

Slowly, she turns from the mirror—but she can’t meet his eyes directly. Looking at an ear is a trick he taught her, and she should have remembered it. “…Mother’s book?”

Flippantly, he shrugs, rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “I can read.”

(Also, the others forget: Jafar was, briefly, a djinn. He knows a few things about magic, too.)

Jay can feel the pressure of her eyes, demanding, searching, anxious. “What did you read?” she asks, voice silky smooth. Mal taught her that one.

“Oh, you know.” He re-crosses his arms, adjusting the fold, and looks at her too quickly for Evie to prevent their eyes meeting. Neither glares—neither can afford to look displeased, if someone is watching—but just as he knows her, she also knows how to read his every shift in mood under the surface. “So, there’s no reason to be worried. Not like anyone will get a chance to do any sacrificing ‘round here.”

“Jay…”

He claps his hands to distract from the waver in her voice and stands. “Might as well get going! That lamp going to find itself—”

“Before we go shopping for decorative housewares,” she interjects, steel in her tone and pleading in her eyes, “do you mind if we take a side trip? I’ve been meaning to find a suitable horse.”

It’s not exactly a code, just the contingency Carlos planned. If possible, if needed, the hiding place for messages is in the stables. Jay’s been out there at the end of his rooftop jaunts each night. But Evie’s not asking because she hopes to hear from the other half of their gang.

Healthy horses need freedom to run, and they simply can’t inside the city. Given the sprawl of neighborhoods and shops forming the heart of Auradon City, the stables in the castle are transitional spaces, not living ones. The stallions and mares actually live near the city wall, and no villain wants to go that far from luxuries and gold.

Clearly, Evie wants go somewhere with fewer prying eyes and hash this out in shouts muffled by bubble-spell protection. (And there would be shouting. Lots of it.)

For all that Jay wanted to yell when he’d figured out her plan, right now he just feels…weary. He shakes his head at her earnest plea. “What makes a horse suitable?”

“Someone of my station needs a mare of particular quality.”

“Sounds like a trip I’m not interested in,” he emphasizes with a firm shake of his head.

The lines around Evie’s eyes morph from pleading to a far more characteristic stubbornness. “I’d rather you joined me.”

Sneering, he exaggerates the courtly air of, “I’d rather not.”

She flips her hair over one shoulder, striding past him towards the door. “If you want help finding that lamp, you’d best come along! And perhaps, once we’re there, you’ll find you’re not as against horses as you think.”

(She cannot be serious.)

He plants his feet and snarls, “I will not change my mind.”

“Jay.” She turns her head, looking over her shoulder, and all the tension of her expression reminds him that they might have an audience—one that has no reason to be suspicious. Yet. The longer he resists, though… “Come with me.”

“Fine.” He sighs heavily, acting out frustration that seeps away just as quick as it apparently came. Relief flits across her brow and her shoulders roll back.

At the door, he reaches over her head to hold it open and leans in, just enough to emphasize his height and size. Low volume and low tone, he tells her, “This conversation is over.”

“When I say it is,” she purrs, striding into the corridor.

:: :: ::

“So, what’s first? Supplies or contacting Jay and Evie?” Quinn asks Carlos, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. The morning light filters through brush covering their tunnel exit. Hugh and Phil lean in, nearly-identical mirrors of each other, their paired eyes seeming to shift color in the sunlight.

The damp, dark path had seemed endless on the way here. Knowing an ocean rolled above set them on a relentless pace, carrying dimly glowing candles and keeping strangely quiet. Early on, it seemed to all of them that no amount of talking could fill the gapingly empty space. At times, it felt like the earth itself was swallowing them whole.

Here, sun shining just beyond the boundary of shadow, the air is deceptively calm. Just beyond those city walls is a viper’s nest—and he doesn’t know how bad it may have become in the time since they escaped.

On the Isle, he looked at his volunteers and knew he’d need the best muscle…. just in case. Lonnie was the best fighter, and though she wasn’t happy to do it, she did stay when he asked her to take charge of training the others with Megan and Mervin. That left him the showier types. One look and anyone hoping to stop them will know they have a fight on their hands.

Carlos certainly hopes to avoid potential fights, though. “I told them where to go for messages, in case we had a chance like this, but I don’t know how often they check.”

“That’s our best shot at reaching them,” Hugh says. “Leave a message, start scouting for supplies?”

“Knowing what’s changed before going into the city would be better.” Carlos sighs. “Finding supplies might be difficult either way. But no matter what, we can’t stick around past sunset.” The longer they’re in Auradon, the more likely that they’ll be caught.

“Would it be easiest for you to go to the meeting point first, alone, Carlos?” Quinn asks nonchalantly, not making a spectacle of trust. Neither do the other two.

(Weird: the trust is starting to feel normal.)

He glances between these twins of a demigod father Hercules and this son of the captain of the guard Phoebus. None of the three are actually royalty—an advantage to their mission, clearly, as they’ve all just offered, without complaint, to stay hidden in an odd-smelling tunnel for several hours.

“Partnering up is better. We’ll need speed and silence, though. Who’s the quietest?” They hesitate, and he suppresses a smile. Then he remembers who he’s with, and lets it rise up. “Okay. Walk back,” he points with his thumb over his shoulder, “about ten yards. Then come back here, one at a time.”

They obey. Ten minutes later, Phil and Carlos take off for the city.

Circling the walls, they come across two potential alternate access points: a drainage pipe, large enough to walk in although it smells foul, and a medium-sized community garden with a small wooden door presumably leading back into the city. Carlos catalogues them for their future plans. There’s no telling what’s on the other side of the garden door—huddled crowds, guards, or an empty street—and the tellingly-scented sewers might not lead them to where they want to go. But they are options.

At last, they reach the wide gate of the stables. This is the furthest from their tunnel entrance, and dangerously close to the well-guarded main gates. Yet, this entrance made the most potential sense for a meeting or message. Few villains go there, it appears guarded well enough by being close to the front entrance, and there are many shady trees and bushes right up close to the gate.

“The garden might have something ready for picking,” Phil murmurs as they hunch and consider the stables from behind foliage. “And there were no watchtowers over it. We should have Hugh and Quinn check while we go in.”

“Go tell them,” Carlos replies, settling in. “I’ll watch here until you get back.”

The long minutes he spends watching and waiting are quiet. No one moves around the stables, and he feels confident in the cover he hides in. Will Jay and Evie be out here today? Have they been able to come out earlier? If not yesterday or today, would they get a message tomorrow? After?

The castle must be fiercely guarded after their escape. In a pinch, he might risk sneaking in. But the stables are in their plan. They’ll come.

Unless they’ve been forbidden from leaving the castle.

Nagging worry rises, but he can’t let that make him rash. He’ll wait as long as he can, right up until sundown if he must. And if Jay or Evie don’t show up, he’ll lead Phil back to the tunnel and regroup with the others. Talk them into coming back tomorrow.

He can’t shake a lingering dread, though. Since their escape, so many small things have fallen into place in their favor. Surely, their luck cannot continue to hold. It seems that something has to go wrong eventually.

:: :: ::

The path is familiar, though the daylight is not. Neither is the tension holding Evie’s shoulders tight.

How she thought to keep any secret from Jay is a mystery. Evie’s never been the most secretive—that award goes to Carlos—and she’s certainly not the most skilled at hiding her emotions—unlike Mal, who manages to hide them even from herself—but then, she’s never tried to hide anything from him. Not that anyone outside their gang would have noticed: maybe she is skilled enough to hide from anyone else. Just not them.

The streets are mostly empty, and anyone they come across quickly ducks their head, shrinks in on themselves, and freezes like a rabbit under the eyes of a pair of foxes. Good thing they don’t have to put on any particular performance right now: before leaving the castle, Maleficent had been screeching her displeasure at a ragtag assemblage of other villains. By now, a knock-down drag-out fight is underway.

All that Isle warfare, villain turning on villain, continues to play out here. And now, the bodies are staying down. The smartest and cruelest survive.

Would they kill themselves off if given enough time? If there were fewer, would it be easier to take on the worst-of-the-evil survivors? That’d be one way to deal with the villain problem…

He hopes someone out there has a plan, actually. All he and Evie are doing is surviving. Well. They are, even if he has to drag Evie along, kicking and screaming the whole way.

As though she can hear his thoughts, Evie’s eyes dart to the side and he rolls his away before they can make contact. He’s not exactly punishing her, but—that’s maybe one way to think of it. Let her see his anger. Maybe that’d stop her.

(He’s also just sad. And not allowed to show it.)

Evie doesn’t try to say anything while they are on the move, though. Not until they’ve made it into the stables, and checked that the stalls are clear. Only then does she mumble the familiar charm to cast a protective bubble around their speech.

Instantly, he snaps, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“You need to.”

“You don’t get to do that,” he says, turning his back on her. He forces his hands not to ball into fists.

She moves closer anyway. “What, make my own decisions?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

All is breathlessly quiet, except for the shuffling hooves of the inhabitants. Jay slips into one empty stall, Evie following gracefully, for more privacy from anyone who might come by, despite the relative quiet. Can’t be too careful.

There, he turns on his heel and glares down at her. “You’re ours, Evie. You don’t get to just leave us, permanently, just for—”

“Auradon’s best chance rests with their leaders,” she cuts in, reaching out toward him. He tries not to flinch from her cool hands as they curl around his arms, but she sees, anyway. Her brows pinch with hurt. “We can’t wait until the executions—”

“They’d have a chance to escape.” He consciously relaxes his arms as she continues to hold on. “We can cause a distraction, we can help—”

“It is far riskier to wait—”

A soft clinking draws their attention instantly. Hanging on a post are a set of reins, swaying softly without a breeze, and the only thing out of place is—

Jay breaks away swiftly, bending low and snatching up the glinting lump of metal. It is silver and slightly rusty, and it looks like a part from some machine, metal that covers up wires and encases the insides of a device. It does not belong in a stable, and more importantly, wasn’t there on the ground moments ago. The angle, though…

He doesn’t look up. “Evie, extend the bubble.”

She does so breathlessly, eyes alight and lips twitching from relief to fear and back. “Carlos.”

“Don’t look up,” comes the wry voice from above.

“How did you…” Evie’s voice trails off and she clears her throat. “When did you get here?”

“It’s been about two hours, I think,” he says. “This isn’t the most comfortable spot, but we waited outside the walls for over an hour before coming in. We knew it’d be a long wait.”

“We?” Jay asks, eyes drifting around the stables to reconfirm that no one else is on the ground.

“Hi.” The voice is unfamiliar, but drifts down from above just the same. “It’s Phil.”

Phil from tourney. Jay wouldn’t undermine Carlos’ choice of muscle, but he still wishes it were Mal.

A brief silence is given no room to grow, even with Evie’s eyes attempting to catch his, pleading. Carlos hasn’t asked what they were arguing about—he knows them too well not to have noticed—but when he gets a chance, he will.

Jay doesn’t respond to her pleas. “What do you need, Carlos?”

(He doesn’t know what he’ll say when the time comes.)

The varied needs of the escapees that Carlos lists off come as no shock: food, clothing, medical supplies. Though, Carlos doesn’t clarify exactly who is injured.

Jay admits to himself that at least his rooftop jaunts were good for something besides theoretical surveillance on the off chance of escape. Mostly, it had turned into him just blowing off steam. “I’ve been watching people,” he tells Carlos, Phil and Evie. “Some who work in the castle, some who live in the neighborhoods that have been targeted.”

Resistance only makes sense: there’s a reason shadow-guards have been destroyed. That brown-haired servant who glared comes to mind.

“Perfect.” A shift above, creaking wood, as Carlos shifts for what must have been the first time in hours. “You think they might have weapons, too?”

“I’ll take you to them,” Jay says, tracing out the routes in his own mind. “People will be returning home in the next few hours. No one wants to risk being out at sundown.”

“That’s pushing it close,” Evie says, patting a horse on the nose. She’s made her way out of the stall, putting on the appearance of looking horses. The speech bubble doesn’t block scrying sight, after all.

Jay shrugs. “But if I’m right, these people will give us a lot of help.”

Evie rolls her eyes. Jay’s sure that Carlos has done the same above. They both know he’d never have mentioned other people if he wasn’t mostly-certain they’d get what they needed.

He just hasn’t mentioned that if the people he’s thought of won’t volunteer…he’s willing to take what they need by force.

(They might know that, too.)

(It’s not like—)

(They have to survive. They have to.)

“We’ll take the long way back,” Evie says, one final brush of horse hair from horse forehead. “Then Jay can double back—to the rooftop of that quaint little market, by the fountain of roses?” Jay nods. “I’ll put a scry-blocker on you.”

“And then get some rest,” Carlos commands. Jay hums his agreement: she’s getting stronger, but the magic still takes a lot.

“But I’ll be with you,” she argues, and that can’t stand.

“No, you won’t.” She frowns and Jay adds, “Someone has to cover for us in the castle. And you can’t do the spell while moving, so you need to be somewhere no one will accidentally find you.”

That, she has to concede, and carefully wipes the traces of worry from her expression.

Of course. Opportunity and means: Carlos will ask about their disagreement, and Jay will have to answer. He has no idea what he’ll say.

Evie diverts the conversation. “What’s your plan after you’ve resupplied?”

Carlos and Phil have heard some news about Auradon’s current status, but Jay and Evie have both avoided talking about the executions or asking too much about the escapees. It’s not going to remain a secret, but at a glance, they’d agreed some information should wait until later. After they have their supplies. 

No use worrying for longer or being tempted to try an ill-advised breakout. The escapees only have survival on their minds right now.

“Get this.” Carlos sounds like he’s grinning. “We’re going to take back Auradon.”

Or…not.

“Just you?” Jay asks, incredulous. Damnit, what is Mal thinking—

“We joined up with the alliances. All the other kids left for dead on the Isle are joining us.”

(What.)

“Also, Yen Sid’s working for Ben—”

( _What_.)

“—so we’re getting the supplies back to everyone through these tunnels that connect Auradon to the Isle.”

“You’re on the Isle?” Evie says, her voice faint. As if that’s the most surprising thing Carlos has just said. As if he hasn’t just made it possible for them not to go through with Evie’s insane plan.

Carlos just laughs, the bastard.

:: :: ::

“This running on rooftops thing,” Hugh pants. “Do you think that’s a—an Isle thing? Or a Carlos thing?”

“A Carlos one,” Phil huffs over his shoulder. “Haven’t you noticed? He’s always going for the high ground.”

Just ahead, Carlos makes no indication that he heard either of them.

Quinn shakes his head, jumping across the gap between two rooftops. He prefers solid ground too, but he also grew up on stories from—and about—his godfather. The bell-ringer in whose honor he’s named taught him an appreciation for the more obscure ways to travel in a city. Ways people who don’t want to, or can’t, be seen, choose to make their way differently.

Maybe it’s not just a Carlos thing. They only see Mal when she wants to be seen, and haven’t seen Evie out and about, but Jay’s profile up ahead makes him second-guess the assumption that only the smallest member of that quartet makes use of the higher paths.

They come to a halt on a slightly-angled roof overlooking the fountain of roses—a little place the King built in honor of the Queen. A lot of the roses have been torn up and the murky water can’t have been running for at least a week. But it’s there and Quinn lets himself remember wandering past it once or twice whenever he’d been out shopping in the city for odds and ends.

A lone residential street lies ahead, nestled behind one row of stores. The fountain square and surrounding streets are almost empty. A handful of stragglers hurry on, heads down and shoulders tense. Sunset creeps slowly into being, the light beginning to dim.

“The green house,” Jay says, voice soft enough to carry to them on the wind, but not loud enough to fall to the streets below. “A servant who works in the castle lives there. And at least ten guards have gone missing in this area.”

“Why that servant?” Carlos asks.

Jay’s shoulders shift, just slightly, but he replies with a steady voice. “Because he doesn’t look down. He’s not cowed and afraid.”

Quinn frowns. What was his teammate doing when a citizen of Auradon showed no fear? Was it to his face, in response to something he did? Or was Jay present when someone else was threatening this servant?

What were Jay and Evie up to here in Auradon, anyway? Phil mentioned they had a disagreement in the stables, but they weren’t exactly able to talk about it after Carlos shut down the conversation.

“We’ll know when they tell us,” he’d said, and that was that.

He’d also tossed scarves at each of them, to help conceal their faces and Carlos’ distinctive hair. Told them they’d push into the sunset, using it as cover for their activities, and be out before darkness truly covered the city.

Quinn’s questions are the uncomfortable sort that, in any other circumstance, would have clear answers. He doesn’t like the possibilities that could be in this situation. But, as they hunch on the roof in silence, he can’t help but remember. Mal and her mother… Jay and Evie helped the escape, but they stayed behind. Their parents probably want just what Maleficent did: obedience and evil.

These villains. It’s a game of survival.

“Come on,” Carlos says, sudden and sharp. Quinn follows at the end, Jay and Carlos taking the lead. They split up and Carlos gestures for Hugh and Phil to follow him. Quinn’s about to go when Jay catches his elbow and pulls him closer.

“Not sure how they’ll react to me alone,” he murmurs, tugging Quinn’s scarf further over his head to cast deeper shadows about his face. “If it looks like knowing who you are will help, then talk—otherwise, leave it to me.”

Then they’re rounding the corner. A brown-haired man is just opening the door to a green-painted house, and—

Like a coiled snake, Jay springs forward, rolls low—

Slips a foot into the closing door in time to catch it open.

Then, striking, heavy and unexpected, he forces the door back—

Quinn leaps to follow, a heartbeat behind in surprise. He’s nowhere near as controlled in movement, a demented ballerina instead of a purposeful warrior, but all the same, he helps keep the door open as Jay enters the house.

The young man they’d seen opening the door snarls. His gray eyes are sharp and entirely focused on Jay, whose stance comes across as more threatening than reassuring.

“—want clean floors, you’d better—”

“Son!” An older man pushes his way in between them, nudging the younger back towards a staircase—stairs against which an older woman and a teenage girl are hunched. The father of the house is also entirely focused on Jay. “Please, leave my boy be—”

Quinn closes the door behind him and opens his mouth, cheeks warm with frustration with Jay’s thoughtlessness.

The person at the focus of these high emotions says, “You’ll want to open the back door.”

As though waiting for their cue, three sharp raps are heard. The second door is in another room, through an arch in which Quinn sees the kitchen.

The small family only looks more terrified.

(Damnit. Isle kids and their unforeseen levels of stupid.)

Quinn realizes, suddenly, that the woman whose face he initially glossed over is familiar. A second longer to place her through the fear and anger lining her face, and then, he remembers.

“Jay,” he inserts himself into the tableau, nudging his hood back from his face just enough for the light to fall on his skin. “Honestly. Not the best plan, here.”

To his displeasure, Jay’s lips only twitch in a half smirk. “That’s why you’re along for the ride. You know them.”

His steadily-growing ire is disrupted by the sound of a small shopkeeper’s gasp of surprise. “Master Quinn!” the mother of the house exclaims, one hand coming to her own face. Her eyes are confused and distraught lines etch themselves deeper. “What are you…Why are you…?”

He shakes his head, already understanding. “I’m so sorry for scaring you like this—we just couldn’t be sure that someone wasn’t watching, outside your house. Please, I’ll explain, but first—our companions. My companions,” he emphasizes, taking a step forward. “At the back door. It’s not safe for us out there.”

She rallies herself quickly, unlike her husband, who simply blinks in astonishment at her swiftly regained composure. “Oh, Master Quinn, we were so worried,” she says, moving away from the stairs to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her husband. “They’re demanding all the escaped prisoners be returned, or else—”

Jay cuts her off. “Ma’am. The door.” A second, softer knock is heard.

She shakes herself off and goes to open it. The oldest man has started to grasp this sudden change, and squints at Quinn. “Quinn… the Captain’s son, Quinn?”

For once, recognition brings only relief. “And the Romani’s,” he adds, never content with his mother being forgotten from a conversation.

The man looks between him and Jay in confusion, one hand gesturing wordlessly.

Quinn takes the opportunity to clear the air, placing one hand on Jay’s shoulder. “Jay helped us escape. He’s been our ears and eyes inside the kingdom. But it’s dangerous for him, and we knew that coming here might place you at risk—I swear, we’ve done what we can to keep suspicion off you.”

“Making it seem like the usual chaos villains get up to was our best idea,” Carlos says, following the shopkeeper into the room. Her expression is much calmer, though lines of weariness haven’t faded at all.

“You’ve come to the right place if you’re seeking help,” she says, arching an eyebrow. “But how did you know to come to us?”

Hugh grins. “Our eyes and ears,” he says, gesturing to Jay.

Jay, who hasn’t relaxed his stance in the least, Quinn realizes. He’s not expecting his teammate to be so stoic, and now that things have been smoothed over he’s not as angry about the nearly-botched contact. But what’s got Jay so stony and silent?

For that matter, Carlos is uncharacteristically open—eyes bright, shoulders back, expression calm. Is this one of their plans?

 Phil says, “We’re in need of supplies. A lot of them. And, if you know of anyone else who might be interested…a fight’s coming this way, soon. We found someallies, and Ki— _Prince_ Ben is leading the charge.”

The young man steps forward, eyes determined. “We can certainly help with that—I’m in contact with many people who worked in the castle. You’ve got fighters already here, waiting for an opportunity.”

“Palace guards?” Carlos asks.

“And visiting bodyguards, security details, other warriors who weren’t caught in the hero sweep in the Great Hall. They’re hiding around, just staying a few disguises and steps ahead of these damnable raids. Seems the villains didn’t think anyone else was important enough to notice.” The young man shrugs.

“That’s what they do,” Jay says. He sounds grimly pleased. “They’re arrogant.”

“And it’ll be our advantage,” the other says, eying Jay. Whatever powered his previous anger has been mitigated, for now.

Jay nods, but says no more. He stays by the door, a sentinel, as the rest of the family leaps into action. The father and daughter help Hugh and Phil, who respectively take charge of food and clothing. Carlos collects information from the younger man to bring back to Ben. Quinn goes with the shopkeeper to stock up on medical supplies.

“What kind of injuries?” she asks briskly. He's always been the "medicine guy" of the tourney team. Her shop’s mostly herbal remedies for illnesses, athletic injuries, and other health needs, and she’s always known a lot about the scientific side of healing.

Quinn grimaces. “All kinds. Burns, lacerations, malnourishment. Mostly, we need bandages and antiseptics, but anything for fevers, head injuries…” He remembers what a few of the girls badgered them for before they left. “Women’s supplies.”

Her eyes are wide and watery. “Who…Who is so injured? How?”

Oh. She doesn’t know. “Not the escapees, I’m afraid. Those who…took us in.” He clears his throat, hedges around telling her exactly where they are. “Many of the villain’s children did not come to Auradon. Many of them were…injured. Left behind.”

Her tears spill over. “Their parents left them? But—how were they injured?” Confusion, suspicion, and fear war on her face.

“Maleficent burned the Isle. And—and.” He closes his eyes to tell the worst part. “Some of their parents hurt them before leaving.”

His eyes open to the sounds of furious folding and crinkling wrappers and darkly muttered threats under her breath. The shopkeeper makes use of every tiny bit of space and gives him a second bursting-full pack of women’s products besides, one he can sling across his body.

She takes his face between her palms when she’s done and he’s set up like a packhorse. Red-rimmed eyes meet his, glowing with rage. “You tell King Ben—his people will take this kingdom back right alongside him.”

Pride fizzles up his spine.

They’re gathered together in the main room again, loaded down with all they can carry on backs and in arms, expressing gratitude to the family, when Jay is suddenly no longer a statue in the room. He strides closer to the window—one which, Quinn realizes only now, Jay must have been watching. There’s a gap in the curtains.

Jay cuts through the father’s warm wishes with, “We need to go. Now.”

He pushes Phil towards Hugh. Carlos is already moving, sprinting through the back door, and the family’s a well-oiled machine—the two youngest racing up the stairs, the father bracing himself against the door, the shopkeeper seizing a frying pan. But Quinn’s movements are sluggish and he’s only reached the back door when—

Pounding on the front door.

Jay hissing, “Go!”

Shoving Hugh through the back door first.

The shopkeeper saying, “We’ll cover you, hurry—”

Splintering wood.

A woman’s shriek of rage.

He sees, under Jay’s arm: the older man’s legs on the floor, the shopkeeper blocking the kitchen’s door with her body, and over her head, lifted swords. Then he’s stumbles down the back steps and Jay tells him, “Leave.”

And then Jay turns. He’s back inside, slamming the door between them, and Quinn—he’s got two bags slung on him and the others are already at the end of the block in this dark city, he can’t—

Anger carries his legs—at Jay, at the guards, at himself. Quinn runs.

:: :: ::

Carlos sends them back into the tunnel.

They protest, but the supplies have to go back—massive backpacks, bags on each arm, boxes. All that they can carry made it difficult to escape the city a second time. But somehow, they made it through the streets, past the stables, through the uncultivated fields. They made it back to the tunnel. Early evening is so quiet it’s a miracle they weren’t heard.

Unless they were—in which case, this was a one-shop stop and they’ll find that out later.

But he can’t leave, not yet. A regrouping was scheduled and he has to keep it—has to know what happened, has to get Jay to tell him that news he’d said Carlos would hear after they were done. So he sends the other three back into the dark earth, stacked his own load of supplies inside the entrance to the tunnel, and returned to the stables.

Carlos curls up in his spot on the rafters and breathes. Jay will be here. Or Evie. One or both. They’ll be here.

He tries to think of nothing.

Crickets are chirping by the time he hears a soft stride outside. His back straightens and he breathes shallowly until Jay’s familiar frame stands inside the stables.

He tosses the outer casing of his taser again. Jay sighs and picks it up, just like he did earlier that day, and leans on the post just below Carlos’ perch.

Carlos breathes. And waits.

“The shopkeeper’s husband… he didn’t make it. He tried to stop them breaking in.”

“How many guards?”

“There were three.”

Were.

“Shadows?”

A hum of agreement, then nothing. Three less guards, now.

(Vindictively: he’s glad.)

They’ve never taken a loss before, and it is unsettling, especially when everything else went just as usual. Jay’s always been the muscle: there to back the three of them whenever they needed, always on the watch for attack. Carlos is their negotiator, especially without threats coming into it, because by the time he’s the one called forward, the other party knows not to try anything.

He knew he’d succeeded when he had a full pack on his back. Jay probably doesn’t have that sense of success: he failed to defend that old man.

Carlos can’t do anything about the old man, or put the world back together again single-handedly, but he can get Jay to unload one of his other burdens. He shifts his shoulders against the rough wooden support. “How’s Evie?”

A huff of air, unhappiness made sound, puffs out, but Jay holds his thoughts a little longer.

The need for thought makes Carlos uneasy.

“What’s the timetable on that attack?” comes the slow, measured question.

He lets himself frown, unseen. “No timetable, yet. We’re trying to figure out when the best time would be. They certainly don’t want to wait, though.”

“It has to happen the day after tomorrow.”

His eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise. “That’s…a bit soon. I mean, just logistically—”

“Carlos.” Jay’s tone is heavier than he’s ever heard. “Maleficent’s planning to execute the royals.”

His stomach abruptly twists in knots as Jay continues, outlining the declarations she’d made, the reasons for guards in the neighborhood at all, the timeline that they’d under. All of it.

(Something had to go wrong eventually.)

“Is there—have you two been trying to come up with a way to break them out?” he asks, tongue heavy. Surely Jay would have led with that, but he has to ask. (To hope.)

“Grimhilde added another enchantment. Evie…she thinks she can break it, but.” Jay sighs heavily. “I read the spell. In the book. She…” He pauses for a long breath. Carlos wants to jump down there and shake it out of him. “Evie can’t do it. Our only real chance is after they’re let out of the dungeons. Which won’t happen until the executions.”

Jay’s shoulders are a little too tense, eyes darting up and back down. All telling behaviors. Whatever he’s hiding, Carlos has to let it go: Jay wouldn’t choose to keep it to himself unless it was irrelevant.

Strategies and modifications to the fledgling idea they had come up with spin through his head. “Our attack will need to be both a distraction and a rescue,” Carlos says.

“When will you know what’s happening for sure?” Jay asks.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Same time,” Carlos says, finally swinging down. “I need to take this back. Now.” Wildcard: how will the Auradon teens take this news? He thinks it’s going to get ugly.

(And bad things happen to the messenger of bad news. On the Isle.)

Jay ruffles his hair, just to be annoying. “How’s Mal?”

There’s a lot he could say to that, but only one word, loaded with meaning, stands out. “She’s better.”

Before he can skip back out to the tunnels, Jay grabs him back into an overwhelming hug. Too tight, too close, semi-public—all things that are anathema to their previous lives. But it’s a little thing they’ve picked up on in their all-too-brief school days in Auradon, and Carlos can admit that he likes it. It’s like crashing in each other’s beds, total protection and familiarity. Just not in shadows and secrecy.

When he sneaks back out of the city walls to the tunnel, he’s almost sad to go, almost sad to light the candle stub the others had left behind for him. The longing for his gang to be back together isn’t enough to make him stay, though, and certainly not with the knowledge weighing down his every step.

The long, lonely tunnel yawns before him. He grits his teeth against the weight piled on his back and in his arms, and heads off into the darkness.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [what's wrong (never sold my soul)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11992125) by [Sweetbriar15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetbriar15/pseuds/Sweetbriar15)
  * [hear my whispers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14709585) by [Sweetbriar15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetbriar15/pseuds/Sweetbriar15)




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